

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 


















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By SAMUEL WARREN. 


17 to 27 VaNdeW/tef\ St 
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MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION. 


BO. PRICE. 

1 Yolande. By William Black. . . 20 

2 Molly Bawn. By “ The Duchess ”. . . . 20 

3 The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By “Ouida” 20 

5 Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

7 File No. li3. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood — 20 

9 Wanda. By “ Ouida . 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dickens. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. Miss Mulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By Gaboriau. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Brontd...... 20 

16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

17 The Wooing O’ t. By Mrs. Alexander.. 15 

18 Shandon Bells. By William Black.... 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise. By William Black 20 

22 David Copperfield. Dickens. Yol. I.. 20 

22 David Copperhead. Dickens. Yol. II. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Yol. II.. 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duchess ”... 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. I. 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Yol. II. 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott... ..... . 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. “ The Duchess ” 10 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “The Duchess” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

33 The Clique of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot ... 30 

35 Lady And ley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 30 

38 The Widow Lerouge. By Gaboriau. . 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Ly tton — ................. 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens .. .. 15 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau.... 20 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William Black.. 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant... 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade.. 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant.. 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20. 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Black. . . 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By William Black 20 

51 Dora Thorne. By the Author of “ Her 

Mother’s Sin” 20 

52 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins. 10 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring-. By the Au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

55 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas. . . . 20 

66 Phantom Fortune. Miss Braddon.... 20 

67 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6 20 


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58 By the Gate of the Sea. D. C. Murray 10 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey ...... 20 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper. . 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. 10 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Fenimore Cooper... 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon.. 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 

By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 LornaDoone. By R. D. Blaekmore.. 30 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By the 

Author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne”.. 20 

70 White Wings. By 'William Black . ... 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.. 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By M. C. Hay 20 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne 20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M.E. Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas... 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens. .. . 15 

78 Madcap Violet. By William Black... 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester. 20 

81 A Daughter of Hetb. By Wm. Black. 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey. .. 20 

83 A Strange Story. Bulwer Ly tton ... . 20 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. .. 10 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell.. 20 

86 Belinda. ByRlioda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

By Jules Verne 20 

GS The Privateersman. Captain Marry at 20 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballantyne. 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. Bulwer Lytton.. 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” * . . . 10 

93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiography.. 20 

94 Little Do rrit. By Charles Dickens. .. 30 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballantyne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. Walter Besant.. 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 16 

99 Barbara's History. A. B. Edwards. .. 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 

Jules Verne * 20 

101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughton 20 
Jf )2 The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins.. , 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell. ... 10 

104 The. Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobey. 30 

105 A Noble W ife. By John Saunders 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charlps Dickens. . . 40 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens . . 40 

108 The Cricket o the Hearth, and Doctor 

Marigold. By Charles Dickens 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss Braddon 10 

111 The Little School-Master Mark. By 

J. H. Shorthouse 1(1 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John Hill SI j 



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113 Mrs. Carr's Companion. By M. 

6. Wight wick ..?... 30 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. 

C. J. Eiloart 20 

315 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 
Adolphus Trollope. 10 

116 Moths. By “ Ouida ” 20 

117 A Tale 6f the Shore and Ocean. 

By W. H. G. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. and Eric 

Dering. By “ The Duchess ”. 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill'd. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 29 

121 Maid of Atliens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton . 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black ... 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. . . 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “ Ouida ” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

” 

130 The Last of tiie Barons. By 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 40 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st and 2d half, each 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. ByR. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By 

“ The Duchess ” . ; . 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him ! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan , . 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope.... 20 

248 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 


NO. PRICE. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight . 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

Blatherwick ..... 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 

son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories. By Florence 
Marrvat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By 7 Sarah 

Tytler : 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton.. 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. Bj- Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila : or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

By William Makepeace Thack- 
eray 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins : 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By 7 Charles 

Dickens. 10 

170 A Great Treason. By 7 Mary 

Hoppus 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners., By Eleanor C. 


Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge.. 20 

175 Love's Random Shot, and Other 

Storms. By Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

176 An April Day. By 7 Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell . ! 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 20 


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183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat... 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 


jendie 10 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James 

Payn • 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale. 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 5 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 15 

192 At the World’s Mercj'. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By GL Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !” By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 

David Christie Murray 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay ; * 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 

thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All • 

Trades. By Charles Reade . . 10 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 15 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat. 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dra- 

goon. By Chas. Lever (Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 

Reade 15 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By'Rosa 

Nouchetle Carey 15 

216 Foul Play. B3 r Charles Reade. 15 

217 The Man She Cared For. By 

F. W. Robinson 15 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 15 

219 Lady Clare ; or, The Master of 

the Forges. By Georges Ohnet 10 


no. _ PRICE. 


220 Which Loved Him Best? By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Coinin’ Thro’ the Rj r e. By 

Helen B. Mathers 15 

222 The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 15 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 15 

225 The Giant’s Robe. ByF. Anstey 15 

226 Friendship. By “ Ouida ” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rlioda Broughton. 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

da” ....20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander. T. 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 15 

231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles' Reade 15 

232 Love and Money; or, A Perilous 

Secret. By Charles Reade. . . 10 

233 “ I Say No or, the Love-Lettei;. 

Answered. Wilkie Collins.... 15 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon. . 15 

235 “ It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” By Charles Reade. . . 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. By “ Ouida ” 20 

239 Signa. * By “Ouida” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora ''Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 10 

252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita . 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 


“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood..., 15 

256 Mr. Smith: A Part of His Life. 

By L. B. Walford 15 




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257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” B}" Alexander 
Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 


Braddon 15 

264 Piddouche, A French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 15 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fairy Tale 

for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. 

« Charles Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser's Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew, Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Marry at... 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or. The Wait- 

ing on * an Island. By M. 
Betham Ed wards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 

den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 15 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” . . 10 


NO. PRICE. 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

286 Deldee ; or, The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “ Brutal 


Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay ^0 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. Bj r the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Mitehelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. Bj r the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Iugledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death. By t he author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” IQ 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week in Killarney. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover's Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill — 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence ; or, Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 30 


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317 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

Gibbon 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Fraacillon. 10 

320 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 The Prodigals: And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphaut 10 

■322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid... 20 

321 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. ByErpkmann- 

Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. By 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By' 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

338 The Family Difficult}'. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

839 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander... 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 IMadolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “ The Duchess ” 

843 The Talk of the Town. By 
James Payn 

344 “The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant..... 

316 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 


NO. 

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PRICE. 

The Two Admirals. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Diaua of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

The House on the Moor. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 
rett 10 

The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 
end of Montrose. ’By Sir Wai- 
ter Scott.. 20 

The Lottery of Life. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 
That Terrible Man. By W. E. 
Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 

Felbermann 10 

A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyde 20 

John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 
wick Harwood 20 

The Water-Witch. By' J. Feni- 
more Cooper . 20 

Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

The Red Rover. A Tale of the 
Sea. By 7 J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

Castle Dangerous. B.y Sir Wal- 
ter Scott : .’ 10 

George Christy; or, The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By 7 Tony 

Pastor 20 

The Mysterious Hunter; or. 
The Man of Death* By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

Tie and Trick. By 7 Hawley Smart 20 
The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 
mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 
Miss Bretherton. By 7 Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 40 
Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 20 

Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”, 10 
Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

The Dead Man’s Secret; or, The 
Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 
A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 
Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 

Guards 20 

The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 10 

Magdalen Hepburn : A Story 
of the Scottish Reformation. 

By 7 Mrs. Oliphant. gty 


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NO. PRICE. 

378 Homeward Bouud; or, The 

Chase. J. Fenimore Cooper.. 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte ; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 

a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Bj t Ham- 

ilton Aid 6* 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby. 20 

385 The Headsman ; or, The Abbaye 

des Vignerons. By J. Feui- 


more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “La Petite Comt- . 

esse.” By Octave Feuillet. . . 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

Charlotte French ..... 20 

388 Addie's Husband; or, Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?” 10 

389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess” * 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

•Jules Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wisli. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. Bj' Airs. 


. Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 


404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess”. 10 


no. price- 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

uel Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Alary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife By G. J. AYbyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Alary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

411 A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Brae me, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ”.. . 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. AI. Crolcer 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J.Fenir 

more Cooper *. . . 20 

414 Aliles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper. 20 

416 Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Alaid of Perth ; or. St. 

Valentine’s Day. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott '. 20 

418 St. Ron an s Well. By Sir AY al- 

ter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; or, r l he Little- 

page Alannscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 SatanstOe: or, The Littlepage 

Alanuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 


421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Alanu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or, The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Alercedes of Castile; or. The 
. Voyage, to Cathay. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bait., AI.P., 
formerly known as “ Tommy 
Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Z6ro : A Story of Monte Carlo. 

By Airs. Campbell Praed 10 


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The Merchant’s Clerk. 



By SAMUEL WARREN, LL.D. 

_ ii j ' ' 


Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries hai-sh and crude, 
And, with forced fingers rude, 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: 
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear. 
Compel me to disturb your season due ! 

Milton. 




vX>° 


r. 


• fO 

{ APR 

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6 , i 0 




NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 to 27 Vanimcwateu Street. 


A ^ s. 




THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


Look, reader, once more with the eye and heart of sympathy, at 
a melancholy page in the book ot human life — a sad one indeed, and 
almost the last that will be opened by one who has already laid sev- 
eral before you, and is about to take his departure. 

It was pouring with rain one Wednesday, in the month of March, 
18 — , about twelve o’clock, and had been raining violently the whole 
morning. Only one patient had called npon me up to the hour 
just mentioned, for how could invalids stir out in such weather? 
The wind was cold and bitter— the aspect of things without, in 
short, most melaucholy and cheerless. “ There are one or two poor 
souls,” thought I, with a sigh, as I stepped from the desk at which 
1 had been occupied in writing for more than an hour, and stood 
looking over the blinds into the deserted and almost deluged street 
— “ there are one or two poor souls that would certainly have been 
here this morning, according to appointment, but for this unfriend- 
ly weather. Their cases are somewhat critical— one of them 
especially— and yet they are not such as to warrant my apprehend- 
ing the worst. I wish, by the way, 1 had thought of asking their 
addresses! Ah — for the future 1 will make a point of taking down 
the residence of such as I may suspect to be in very humble or em- 
barrassed circumstances. One can then, if necessary, call upon 
such persons— on such a day as this —at their own houses. There’s 
that poor man, for instance, the bricklayer — he can not leave his 
work except at breakfast- time— I wonder how his poor child comes 
on! Poor fellow, how anxious he looked yesterday, when he asked 
me what 1 thought of his child! And bis wife bed-ridden! Really, 
I’d make a point of calling, if I knew where he lived! He can’t 
afford a coach— that’s out of the question. Well— it can’t behelped, 
however!” With this exclamation, half uttered, I looked at my 
watch, rung the bell, and ordered the carriage to be at the door in 
a quarter of an hour. I was sealing one of the letters I had been 


10 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


writing, when 1 heard a knock at the street door, and in a few min- 
utes my servant showed a lady into the room. She was apparently 
about four- or five-and-twenty; neatly but very plainly dressed; her 
features, despite an air of languor, as if from recent indisposition, 
without being strictly handsome,, had a pleasing expression of 
frankness and spirit, and her address was easy and elegant. She 
was, however, evidently flurried. She “ hoped she should not keep 
me at home — she could easily call again.” 1 begged her to be seat- 
ed; and in a quiet tone, at the same time proceeding with what 1 
was engaged upon, that she might have a moment’s interval in 
which to recover her self-possession, made some observations about 
the weather. 

“ It is still raining hard, I perceive,” said 1; “ did you come on 
foot? BleBS me, madam, why you seem wet through! Pray come 
nearer the fire;” (stirring it up into a cheerful blaze); 44 shall 1 offer 
you a glass of wine, or wine and water? You look very chilly.” 

“ No, thank you, sir; 1 am rather w r et certainly, but 1 am accus- 
tomed to rain; I will, however, sit closer to the fire, if you please, 
and tell you in a few words my errand. I shall not detain you long, 
sir,” she conlinued, in a tone considerably mor§ assured. 44 The 
fact is, I have received a letter this morning from a friend of mine 
in the country, a young lady who is an invalid, and has written to 
request 1 would call immediately upon some experienced physician, 
and obtain, as far as can be, his real opinion upon her case, for she 
fancies, poor girl! that they are concealing what is really Ihe mat- 
ter with her!” 

44 Well! she must have stated her case remarkably well, ma’am,” 
said I, with a smile, 44 to enable me to give anything like a reasona- 
ble guess at her state without seeing her!” 

44 Oh, but 1 may be able to answer many of your questions, sir, 
for 1 am very well acquainted with her situation, and was a good 
deal with her, not long ago.” 

44 Ah, that’s well. Then will you be so kind,” giving a monitory 
glance at my watch, 44 as to say what you know of her case? The 
fact is, I’ve ordered the carriage to be here in about a quarter of an 
hour’s time, and 1 have a. long day’s work before me!” 

44 She is— let me see, sir— I should say about six years older than 
myself; that is, she is near thirty, or thereabouts. 1 should not 
think she was ever particularly 3trong. She’s seen, poor thing, a 
good deal of trouble lately.” She sighed. 

44 Oh, 1 see, I understand! A little disappointment — there’s the 
seat of the mischief, 1 suppose?” I interrupted, smiling, and plac- 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 11 

ing my hand over my heart. “ Isn’t this really, now, the whole 
secret?” 

“ Why— the fact is— certainly, 1 believe— yes, I may say that love 
has had a good deal to do with her present illness, for it is really ill- 
ness! She has been — ” she paused, hesitated, and, as 1 fancied, 
colored slightly — “ crossed in love — yes! She was to have been — 1 
mean — that is, she ought to have been married last autumn, but for 
this sad affair. ” 1 bowed, looking again at my watch, and she went 
on more quickly to describe her friend as being naturally rather 
delicate — that this “ disappointment ” had occasioned her a great 
deal of annoyance and agitation — that it had left her now in a very 
low nervous way, and, in short, her friend suspected herself to be 
falling into a dec ine. That about two months ago she had had the 
misfortune to be run over by a chaise, the pole of which struck 
her on the right chest, and the horses’ hoofs also trampled upon 
her, but no ribs were bioken. 

“Ah, this is the most serious part of the story, ma’am— this 
looks like real illness! Pray, proceed, ma’am. 1 suppose your 
friend after this complained of much pain about the chest; is it so? 
Was there any spitting of blood?” 

“ Yes, a little— no— I mean — let me see.” Here she took out of 
her pocket a letter, and unfolding it, cast her eyes over it for a mo- 
ment or two, as if to refresh her memory by looking at her friend s 
statement. 

“ May I be allowed, ma’am, to look at the letter in which your 
friend describes her case?” I inquired, holding out my hand. 

“ There are some private matters contained in it, sir,” she replied 
quickly; ‘‘the fact is, there was some blood spitting at the time, 
which 1 believe has not yet quite ceased.” 

“ And does she complain of pain in the chest?” 

“ Yes — particularly in the right side.” 

“ Is she often feverish at night and in. the morning?” 

“ Yes— very— that is, her hands feel very hot, and she is restless 
and irritable.” 

“ Is there any perspiration?” 

“ Occasionally a good deal — during the night.” 

“ Any cough?” 

“ Yes, at times, very troublesome, she says.” 

“ Pray, how long lias she had it? 1 mean, had she it before the 
accident you spoke of?” 

“ 1 first noticed it— let me see— ah, about a year after she was 
married.” 


(THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


n 

“ After she was married?” I echoed, darting a keen glance at her. 
She colored violently, and stammered confusedly. 

” No, do, sir; 1 mean about a year after the time when she ex- 
pected to be married.” 

There was something not a little curious and puzzling in all this. 
” Can you tell me, ma’am, what sort of a cough it is?” I inquired, 
shifting my chair, so that I might obtain a more distinct view of her 
features. She perceived what 1 was about, 1 think: for she seemed 
to change color a little, and to be on the verge of shedding tears. 1 
repeated my question. She said that the cough was at first very 
slight; so slight that her friend had thought nothing of it, but at 
length it became a dry and painful one. She began to turn very pale. 
A suspicion of I he real state of the case flashed across my mind. 

‘‘Now, tell me, ma'am, candidly— confess 1 Are not } r ou speak- 
ing of yourself? You really look ill!” 

She trembled, but assured me emphatically that 1 was mistaken. 
She appeared about to put some question to me, when her voice 
failed her, and her eyes, wandering to the window, filled with tears. 

“ Forgive me, sir! 1 am so anxious about my friend she 
sobbed— “ she is a dear, kind, good — ” Her agitation increased. 

” Calm, pray calm yourself, ma’am; do not distress yourself un- 
necessarily! You must not let your friendly sympathies overcome 
you in this way, or you will be unable to serve your friend as you 
wish — as she has desired!” 

1 handed to her a bottle of smelling-salts, and after pausing for a 
few moments, her agitation subsided. 

‘‘ Well,” she began again, tremulously, “ what do you think of 
her case, sir? You may tell me candidly, sir she was evidently 
making violent struggles to conceal her emotions—” for 1 assure 
you 1 will never make an improper use of what you may say— in- 
deed 1 will not! What do you really think of her case?” 

” W hy — if all that you have said be correct, 1 own 1 fear it is a 
bad case — certainly a bad one,” 1 replied, looking at her scruti- 
nizingly. ” You have mentioned some symptoms that are very un- 
favorable.” 

” Do you— think— her case hopeless, sir?” she inquired in a fee- 
ble tone, and looking at me with sorrowful intensity. 

” Why, that is a very difficult question to answer— in her ab- 
sence. One ought to see her— to hear her tell her own story— to ask 
a thousand little questions. 1 suppose, by the way, that she is under 
the care of a regular professional man?” 

” Yes, 1 believe so— no, 1 am not sure; she has been, X believe.” 


the merchant's, clerk. 


18 


1 felt satisfied that she was speaking of herself. 1 paused, scarce 
knowing what to say. “ Are her circumstances easy? Could she 
go to a w armer climate in the spring or early part of the summer?' 
I really think that change of scene w ould do her greater good than 
anything 1 could prescribe for her.” 

She sighed. “ It might be so; but — 1 know it could not be done. 
Circumstances, 1 believe — ” 

“ Is she living with her family? Could not they — ” 

“ Oh, no, there’s no hope there, sir!” she. replied, with sudden 
impetuosity. “No, no; they would see both of us perish before 
they would lift a finger to save us,” she added with increasing ve- 
hemence of tone and manner. “ So now it’s all out— -my poor, 
poor husband!” She fell into violent hysterics. The mystery was 
now dispelled— it was her husband’s case that she had been all the 
while inquiring about. 1 saw it all! Poor soul, to gain my candid, 
my real opinion, she had devised an artifice to the execution of 
which she was unequal; overestimating her own strength, or rather 
not calculating upon the severe test she would have to encounter. 

Ringing the bell, 1 summoned a female servant, who, with my 
wife (she had heard the violent cries of my patient), instantly made 
her appearance, and paid all necessary attentions to the mysterious 
sufferer, as surely 1 might call her. The letter from which, in Order 
to aid her little artifice, she had affected to read, had fallen upon 
the floor. It was merely a blank sheet of paper, folded in the 
shape of a letter, and directed, in a lady’s handwriting, to “Mrs. 

Elliott, No. 5, Street.” This I put into my pocket book. She 

had also, in falling, dropped a small piece of paper, evidently con- 
taining my intended fee, neatly folded up. This 1 slipped into the 
reticule which lay beside her. 

From what scene of wretchedness had this unhappy creature 
come to me? 

The zealous services of my wife and her maid presently restored 
my patient, at least to consciousness, and her first look was one of 
gratitude for their assistance. She then attempted, but in vain, to 
speak, and her tears flowed fast. “ Indeed, indeed, sir, I am no im- 
postor! and yet I own 1 have deceived you! but pity me! Have 
mercy on a being quite forsaken and broken-hearted! I meant to 
pay you, sir, all the while. I only wished to get your true opinion 
about my unhappy husband. Oh, how very, very, very, wretched 1 
am! What is to become of us! So— my poor husband! there’s no 
hope! Oh, that I had been content with ignorance of your fate!” 
{She sobbed bitterly, and my worthy little wife exhibited so much 


14 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


firmness and presence of mind, as she stood beside her suffering sis- 
ter, tli at 1 found it necessary gently to remove her from the room. 
What a melancholy picture of grief was before me in Mrs. Elliott, 
if that were her name. Her expressive features were flushed, and 
bedewed with weeping; her eyes swollen, and her dark hair, par- 
tially disheveled, gave a wildness to her countenance, which added 
to the effect of her incoherent exclamations. “ 1 do — 1 do thank you, 
sir, for your candor. I feel that you have told me the truth! Hut 
what is to become of us? My mod dreadful fears are confirmed! 
But 1 ought to have been home before this, and am only keeping 
you-” 

✓ “ Not at all, ma’am — pray don’t — ” 

: ‘Hut my husband, sir, is ill — and there is no one to keep the 
child but him. 1 ought to have been back long ago!” She rose 
feebly from the chair, hastily readjusted her hair, and replaced her 
bonnet, preparing to go. She seemed to miss something, and looked 
about the floor, obviously embarrassed at not discovering the object 
of her search. 

“ it is in your reticule, ma’am, ’ 1 whispered; “ and, unless you 
would affront and wound me, there let it remain. 1 know wiiat you 
have been looking for— hush! do not think of it again. My carriage 

is at the door; shall 1 take you as far as Street! 1 am driving 

past it.” 

“ No, sir, 1 thank you; but — not for the world! My husband has 
no idea that I have been here; he thinks I have been only to the 
druggist. I would not have him know of this visit on any account.. 
He would instantly suspect all.” She grew again excited. “Oh 
what a wretch 1 am! How long must 1 play the hypocrite? 1 must 
look happy, and say that I have hope when 1 am despairing — and 
he dying daily before my eyes! Oh, how terrible will home be after 
this! But how long have 1 suspected all this!” 

1 succeeded, at length, in allaying her agitation, imploring her to 
strive to regain her self-possession before reappearing in the pres- 
ence ol her husband. She promised to contrive some excuse for 
summoning me to see her husband', as if in the first instance, as 
though it were tire first time 1 had seen or heard of either of them, 
and assured’ me that she would call upon me again in a few days’ 
time. “ But sir,” she whispered, hesitatingly, as 1 accompanied her 
through the hall to the street door, “ 1 am really afraid we can not 
afford to trouble you often.” 

“ Madam, you will greatly grieve find offend me if you ever al- 
lude to this again before 1 mention it to you. Indeed you will. 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


15 


ma’am,” 1 added peremptorily but kindly; and reiterating my in- 
junctions, that she should let me soon see her, or hear from her, 1 
closed the door upon her, satisfied that ere long would be laid be- 
fore me another dark page in the volume of human life. 

Having been summoned to visit a patient somewhere in the neigh- 
borhood of - — Street that evening, and being on foot, it struck me, 
as it was beginning again to rain heavily, that if 1 were to step into 
some one of the little shops close by, 1 might be sheltered a while 
from the rain, and also possibly gain some information as to the 
character and circumstances of my morning visitor. 1 pitched upon 
a small shop that ^ as “ licensed ” to sell everything, but especially 
groceries. The proprietor was a little lame old man, who was busy, 
as I entered, making up small packets of snuff and tobacco. He 
allowed the plea of the rain, and permitted me to sit down on the 
bench near the window. A couple of candles shed their dull light 
over the miscellaneous articles of merchandise with which the shop 
was stuffed. He looked like an old rat in his hoard! He was civil 
and communicative, and I was not long in gaining the information 
I desired. He knew the Elliotts; they lived at number five, up two 
pairs of stairs— but had not been there above three or four months, 
lie thought Mr. Elliott was “ailing;” and for the matter of that 
his wife didn’t look the strongest woman in the world. “ And pray 
w r hat busiuess or calling is he?” The old man put his spectacles 
back upon his head, and after musing a moment, replied, “ Why 
now, 1 can’t take upon me to say precisely like— but 1 think he’s 
something in the city, in the mercantile way — at least I’ve got it into 
my head that he has been such ; but he also teaches music, and 1 
know she sometimes takes in needle- work. ” 

“Needle-work! does she indeed?” 1 echoed, taking her letter from 
my pocket-book, and looking at the beautiful, the fashionable hand 
in which the direction was written, and which, 1 felt confident, was 
her own. “Ah! then 1 suppose they’re not over- well- to-do in the 
world!” 

“ Why — you an r t a going to do anything to them, sir; are you? 
May I ask if you’re a lawyer, sir?” 

“ No, indeed, I am not,” said I, with a smile— “ nor is this a 
writ! It’s only the direction of a letter, X assure you; 1 feel a little 
interested about these people— at the same time, 1 don’t know much 
about them, as you may perceive. AY ere not you saying that you 
thought them in difficulties?” 

“ Why,” he replied, somewhat reassured, “ maybe you’re not far 
frprn. the mark in that either. They deal here— and they pay me for 


16 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERtf. 


what they have— but their custom an’t very heavy! ’Deed they has 
uncommon little in the grocery way, but pays reg’lar; and that’s 
better than them that has a good deal, and yet doesn’t pay at all— 
an’t it, sir?” 1 assented. “ They used, when they first came here, 
to have six-and-six-penny tea and lump sugar, but this week or two 
• back they’ve had only five and-six-penny tea and worst sugar — 
but my five-and-sixpenny tea is an uncommon good article, and 
as good as many people’s six-shilling tea! only smell itr, sir!” 
And whisking himself round, he briskly dislodged a japanned 
canister, and whipping oft the lid, put a handlul of the contents 
into it. The-conclusion I arrived at was not a very favorable one; 
the stuff he handed me seemed an abominable compound of raisin 
stalks and sloe leaves. “ They're uncommon economical, sir,” he 
continued, putting back again his precious commodity, '* for they 
makes two or three ounces of this do for a week — unless they goes 
elsewhere, which I don’t think they do, by the way; and I’m sure 
they oughtn’t; for, though I say it as shouldn’t they might go fur- 
ther and fare worse, and without going a mile from here either — 
hem ! By the way, Mrs. Eiliott was in here not an hour ago, for a 
moment, asking for some sa so, because she said Mr. Elliott had 
taken a fancy to have some sage milk for his supper to-night. It 
was very unlucky; 1 hadn’t half a handful left! So she was obliged 
to go to the druggist at the other end of the street. Poor thing, she 
looked so vexed; for she has quite a confidence, like, in what she 
gets here!” 

” True, very likely! You said, by the way. you thought he taught 
music— what kind of music?” 

“ Why, sir, he’s rather a good hand at the flute, his landlady 
says. So he comes in to me about a month since, and he says to 
mo, * Bennet,’ says he, ‘ may 1 direct letters for me to be left at your 
shop? I’m going to put an advertisement in the newspaper.’ ‘ That,’ 
says I, ‘ depends on what it’s about — what are you advertising for?’ 
(not meaning to be impudent); and he says, says he, ‘ Why, I’ve 
taken it into my head, Bennet, to teach the flute, and l-’m a-going to 
try to get some one to learn it to.’ So he put the advertisement in 
— but he didn’t get more than one letter, and that brought him a 
jyoung lad— but he didn’t stay long. ’Twas a beautiful black flute, 
sir, with silver on it; for Mrs. Hooper, liis landlady— she’s an old 
friend of my mistress, sir — showed it to us one Sunda} r , when we 
took a cup of tea with her, and the Elliotts was gone out for a walk. 

1 don’t think he can teach it now sir,” he continued, dropping his 
voice; ” tor, between you and I, old Biowning the pawnbroker 4 .a 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK, 


17 


little way up on the left-hand side, has a flute in his window that’s 
the very image of what Mrs. Hooper showed us that night 1 was 
speaking of. You understand me, sir? Pawned — or sold — I’ll an- 
swer for it— ahem!” 

“ Ah, very probable — yes, very likely 1” I replied, sighing— hoping 
my gossiping host would go on. # 

“And between you and I, sir,” he resumed, “it wasn’t a bad 
thing tor him to get rid of it, either; for Mrs. Hooper told us that 
Mr. Elliott wasn’t stionglike to play on it; and she used to hear Mrs. 
Elliott (she is an uncommon agreeable young woman, sir, to look at, 
and looks like one that has been better off): 1 was a-saying, however, 
* that Mrs. Hooper used now and then to hear Mrs. Elliott cry a good 
deal about his playing on the flute, and ’spostulate to him on the 
account of it, and say ‘ You know it isn’t a good thing tor you, dear.’ 
Nor was it, sir— the doctors would say!” 

v Poor fellow!” I exclaimed, with a sigh, not meaning to inter- 
rupt my companion— “-of all things on earth— the flute!” 

“Ah!” replied the worthy grocer, “things are in a bad way 
when they come to that pass — arn’t they! But Lord, sir!” dropping 
his voice, and giving a hurried glance toward a door, opening, I 
suppose; into his sitting-room — “ there’s nothing partic’lar in that, 
after all. My mistress and I, even, have done such things before 
now, at a push, when we’ve been hard driven! You know, sir, pov- 
erty’s no sin— is it?” 

“ God forbid, indeed, my worthy friend!” 1 replied, as a customer 
entered to purchase a modicum of cheese or bacon; and thanking 
Mr. Bennet for his civility in affording me a shelter so loner, I 
quitted his shop. The rain continued, and, as is usually the case, 
no hackney-coach made its appearance till I was nearly wet through. 
My interest in poor Mrs. Elliott and her husband was greatly in 
creased by what I had heard from the gossiping grocer. How dis- 
tinctly, though perhaps unconsciously, had be sketched the down- 
ward progress of respectable poverty! 1 should await the next visit 
of Mrs. Elliott with some eagerness and anxiety. Nearly a week, 
however, elapsed before 1 again heard of Mrs. Elliott, who called at 
my house one morning when 1 had been summoned to pay an early 
visit to a patient in the country. After having waited nearly an 
hour for me, she was obliged to leave, after writing the following 
lines on the back of an old letter; 

“ Mrs. Elliott begs to present her respects to Doctor , and to 

inform him, that if quite convenient to. him, she would feel favored 
by his calling on Mr. Elliott any time to-day or to-morrow. Ska 


18 


THE MERCJTMNT’S CLERK. 


begs to remind him of his promise not to let Mr. Elliott suppose that 
Mrs. Elliott has told him anything about Mr. Elliott, except gen- 
erally that he is poorly. The address is No. 5, Street, near 

Square.” ' * 

At three o’clock that afternoon, l was at their lodging in 

Street. No. 5 was a small decent draper’s shop ; and a young woman 
sitting at work behind the counter referred me, on inquiring for 
•Mr. Elliott, to the private door, which she said 1 could easily push 
open; that the Elliotts lived on the second floor, but she thought 
that Mrs. Elliott had just gone out. Following her directions, 1 
soon found myself ascending the narrow staircase. On approach- 
ing the second floor, the door of the apartment 1 took to be Mr. 
Elliott’s was standing nearly wide open; and. the scene which pre- 
sented itself 1 paused for a few moments to contemplate. Almost 
fronting the door, at a table on which were several huge legers and 
account books, sat a young man apparently about thirty, who seemed 
to have just dropped asleep over a wearisome task. His left hand 
supported his head, and in his right was a pen which he seemed to 
have fallen asleep almost in the act of using. Propped up, on the 
table, between two huge books, a little toward his left-hand side, sat 
a child, seemingly a little boy, and a very pretty one, so engrossed 
with some plaything or another as not to perceive my approach. 1 
^felt that this was Mr. Elliott, and stopped ft>r a few seconds to ob- 
serve him. His countenance was manly, and had plainly been once 
very handsome. It was now considerably emaciated, overspread 
with a sallow hue, and wore an expression of mingled pain and ex- 
haustion. The thin w T hite hand holding the pen also bespoke the 
invalid. His hair w r as rather darker than his wife’s, and being 
combed aside, left exposed to view an ample well-formed forehead, 
in short, he seemed a very interesting person. He w r as dressed in 
black, his coat being buttoned evidently for warmth’s sake; for 
though it was March, and tlie weather very bleak and bitter, there 
was scarce any appearance of fire in about the smallest grate 1 ever 
saw. The room was small, but very clean and comfortable, though 
not overstocked with furniture — what there was being of the most 
ordinary kind. A little noise 1 made attracted, at length, the child’s 
attention. It turned round, started on seeing a stranger, and dis- 
turbed its father, whose eyes looked suddenly but heavily at his 
child, and then at my approaching figure. 

“ Pray walk in,” said he, with a kind of mechanical civility, but 
evidently not completely roused from sleep. “ 1 — 1— am very sorry 
—the accounts are not yet balanced— very sorry— been at them al- 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK, 


19 


most the whole day.” He suddenly paused, and recollected him- 
self. He had, it seemed, mistaken me, at the moment, for some one 
whom he had expected. 

“ Dr. ,” said 1, bowing, and advancing. 

“ Oh! 1 beg your pardon, sir; pray walk in, and take a seat.” 1 
did so. “ 1 believe Mrs. Elliott called upon you this morning, sir? 
1 am sorry she has just stepped out, but she will return soon. She 
will be very sorry she was not at home when you called.” 

“ I should have been happy to see Mrs. Elliott, but I understood 
from a few lines she left at my house that this visit was to be paid 
to yourself —is it not so? Can 1 be of any assistance?” 

” Certainly! I feel far from .well, sir. 1 have been in but mid- 
dling health for some time, but my wife ihinks me, I am sure, 
much worse than 1 really am, and frets herself a good deal about 
me.” 

1 proceeded to inquire fully into his case; and he showed very 
great intelligence and readiness in answering all my questions. He 
had detected in himself, some years ago, symptoms of a liver com- 
plaint, which a life of much confinement and anxiety had since con- 
tributed to aggravate. He mentioned the accident alluded to by 
Mrs. Elliott; and when he had concluded a singularly terse and 
distinct statement of his case, 1 had formed a pretty decisive 
opinion upon it. 1 thought there was a strong tendency to hepatic 
phthisis, but that it might, with proper care, be arrested, if not even 
overcome. 1 expressed myself in very cautious terms. 

“ Do you really, candidly think, sir, that 1 have a reasonable 
chance of recovering my health?” he inquired, with a sigh, at the 
same time folding in his arms his little boy, whose concerned feat- 
ures, fixed in silence, now upon his father, and then upon me, as 
each of us spoke, almost led me to think that he appreciated the 
grave import of our conversation. 

“ Yes, 1 certainly think it probable— very probable— that you 
w r ould recover, provided, as I said before, you use the means 1 
pointed out.” 

“ And the chief of those means are— relaxation and country air?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ You consider them essential?” he inquired, despondingly. 

“ Undoubtedly. Repose, both bodily and mental, change of scene, 
fresh air, and some medical treatment.” 

He listened in silence, his eyes fixed on the floor, while an ex 
Dression of profound melancholy overspread his countenance. He 
seemed absorbed in a painful reverie. 1 fancied that 1 could not 


20 THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 

♦ 

mistake the subject of his thoughts; and ventured to interrupt 
them, by saying in a low tone, “ It would not be very expensive, 
Mr. Elliott, after all.” 

Ah, sir— that is what 1 am thinking about,” he replied, with a 
deep sigh; and he relapsed into his former troubled silence. 

“ Suppose — suppose, sir, I were able to go into the country and 
rest a little, a twelvemonth hence, and in the meantime attend as 
much as possible to my health, is it probable that it would not then 
be too late?” 

“ Oh, come, Mr. Elliott, let us prefer the sunshine to the cloud/’ 
said 1, -with a cheerful air, hearing a quick step advancing to the 
door, which was opened, . as 1 expected, by Mrs. Elliott, who en- 
tered breathless with haste. 

“ How do you do, ma’am— Mrs. Elliott, 1 presume?” said I, 
wishing to put her on her guard, and prevent her appearing to have 
seen me before. 

“ Yes, sir — Mrs Elliott,” said she, Catching the hint, and then 
turning quickly to her husband, “ How are you, love? I Hope 
Henry has been good w-itli you!” 

“Very — he’s been a very good little boy,” replied Elliott, sur- 
rendering him to Mr3. Elliott, whom he was struggling to reach. 

“ JBut how are you, dear?” repeated his wife, anxiously. 

“Pretty well,” he replied, adding, with a faint smile, at the 
same time pushing his foot against mine, under the table, “ As you 

would have Dr. , he is here; but we can’t make out why you 

thought fit to summon him in such haste.” 

“A very little suffices to alarm a lady,” said 1, with a smile. 
“ I was sorry, Mrs. Elliott, that you had to wait so Ions for me this 
morning — 1 hope 1 did not inconvenience you.” 1 began to think 
how 1 should manage to decline the fee 1 perceived they were pre- 
paring to give me, for 1 was obliged to leave, and drew on my 
gloves. “ We’ve had a long tete-a-tete , Mrs. Elliott, in your ab- 
sence. 1 must commit him to your gentle care; you will prove the 
better physician. He must submit to you in everything; you must 
not allow him to exert himself too much over matters like these,” 
pointing to the huge folios lying upon the table; “he must keep 
regular hours, and if all of you could go to a lodging on the out- 
skirts ot the town, the fresh air would do you a woild of good. 
Y’ou must undertake the case, ma’am— you must really pledge your- 
self to this.” The poor couple exchanged hurried glances, in 
silence. He attempted a smile. “What a sweet -little fellow is 
this.” said 1, taking their little child into my arms— a miracle of 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


21 


neatness and cleanliness — and affecting to be eagerly engaged with 
him. He came to me readily, and forthwith began an incompre- 
hensible address to me about “ da-da ” — “ pa-pa ” — “ ma-ma,” and 
other similarly mysterious terms, which 1 was obliged to cut short 
by promising to come and talk again with him in a day or two. 
“ Gcod day, Master Elliott!” said I, giving him back to his father, 
who at the same time slipped a guinea in my hand. 1 took it 
easily. “ Come, sirrah,” said I, addressing the child, “ will you be 
my banker?” shutting his little fingers on the guinea. 

“ Pardon me — excuse me, doctor,” interrupted Mr. Elliott, blush- 
ing scarlet, “ this must not be. I really can not — ” 

‘‘Ah! may 1 not employ what banker 1 like? Well— I’ll hear 
what you have to say about it when we meet again. Farewell for 
a day. or two.” And with, these words, bowing hastily to Mrs. 
Elliott, who looked at me through her tear-filled eyes unutterable 
things, 1 hurried down stairs. It may seem sufficiently absurd to 
dwell so long upon the insignificant circumstance of declining a 
fee; a thing done by my brethren daily— often as a matter of course; 
but it is a matter that has often occasioned me no inconsiderable 
embarrassment. 'Tis really often a difficult thing to refuse a fee 
proffered by those one knows to be unable to afford it, so as not to 
make them uneasy under the sense of an obligation — to wound deli- 
cacy, or offend an honorable pride. I had, only a few days before, 
by the way, almost asked for my guinea from a gentleman who is 
worth many thousands a year, and who dropped the fee into my 
hand as though it w r ere a drop of his heart’s blood. 

I felt much gratified with the appearance and manners of Mr. and 
Mrs. Elliott, and disposed to cultivate their acquaintance. Both 
were too evidently oppressed with melancholy, which was not, 
however, sufficient to prevent my observing the simplicity and man- 
liness of the husband, the fascinating frankness of the wife. How 
her eyes devoured him with fond anxiety! Often while conversing 
with them, a recollection of some of the touching little details com- 
munciated by their garrulous grocer brought the tears for an instant 
to my eyes. Possibly poor Mrs. Elliott had been absent, either seek- 
ing employment for her needle, or taking home what she had been 
engaged upon— both of them thus laboring to support themselves 
by means to which she, at least, seemed utterly unaccustomed, as 
far as one could judge from her demeanor and conversation. Had 
they pressed me much longer about accepting my fee, I am sure I 
should have acted foolishly; for when I held their guinea in my 
hand, the thought of their small weekly allowance of an ounce or 


22 THE merchants clerk. 

two of tea — their brown sugar — his pawned flute— almost determined 
me to defy all delicacy, and return them their guinea doubled. 1 
could enter into every feeling, I thought, which agitated their 
hearts, and appreciate the despondency, the hopelessness with 
Which they listened to my mention of the indispensable necessity of 
change of scene and repose. Probably, while I was returning 
home, they were mingling bitter tears as they owned to one another 
the impossibility of adopting my suggestions; he feeling, and she 
fearing, neither, nowever, daring to express it, that his days were 
numbered — that he must toil to the last, for a scanty livelihood — 
and even then leave his wife and child, it seemed but too probable, 
destitute— that, in the sorrowful language of Burns, 

“ Still caring, despairing, 

Must be his bitter doom: 

His woes here, ‘shall close ne’er 
But with the closing tomb.” * 

1 felt sure that there was some secret and grievous source of misery 
in the background, and often thought of the expression she had 
frantically uttered when at my house. Had either oi them married 
against the wishes of a proud and unrelenting family? Little did 
1 think that 1 had, on that very day which first brought me ac- 
quainted with Mrs. Elliott, paid a professional visit to one fearfully 
implicated in the infliction of their present sufferings! But 1 antici- 
pate. 

1 need not particularize the steps by which 1 became at length 
familiarly acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Elliott. 1 found them for 
a long while extremely reserved on the subject of their circum- 
stances, except as far as an acknowledgment that their pecuniary re- 
sources were somewhat precarious. He was, or rather, it seemed, 
had been, a clerk in a merchant’s counting-house; but ill health 
obliged him at length to quit his situation, and seek for such occa- 
sional employment as would admit of being attended to at his own 
lodging. His labors in this way were, 1 perceived, notwithstanding 
my injunctions and his promises, of the most intense and unremit- 
ting, and, I feared, ill-requited description. But with what heart 
could 1 continue my remonstrances, when 1 felt convinced that thus 
he must toil or starve? She also was forced to contribute her efforts 
toward their support, as 1 often saw her eagerly and rapidly engaged 
upon dresses and other articles too splendid to be for her own use. 
1 could not help one day in the fullness of my heart, seeing her thus 


* Despondency , an Ode. 


THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 


23 


engaged, telling her that I had many a time since my marriage 
seen my wife similarly engaged. She looked at me with surprise 
tor a few moments, and burst into tears. She forced off her rising 
emotions; but she was from that moment aware that I fully saw 
and appreciated her situation. It was on a somewhat similar occa- 
sion that she and her husband were at length induced to tell me 
their little history; and before giving the reader an account of what 
fell under my own personal observation, 1 shall lay before him, in 
my own way, the substance of several painfully interesting conver- 
sations with this most unfortunate couple. Let not the ordinary 
reader spurn details of every-day life, such as will here follow, 

“ Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor.” 

Owing to a terrible domestic calamity, it became necessary that 
Henry Elliott, an only son, educating at Oxforrl, and destined for 
the army, should suddenly quit the university, and seek a livelihood 
by his oivn exertions in London. The event which occasioned this 
sudden blight to his prospects was the suicide of his father, Major 
Elliott; whose addiction to gambling, having for a long time seri- 
ously embarrassed his affairs, and nearly broken the heart of his 
wife, at length led him to commit the fatal act above spoken of. 
His widow survived .the shock scarce a twelvemonth, and her un- 
fortunate son was then left alone in the world, and almost entirely 
destitute. The trifling sum of ready money which remained m his 
possession after burying his mother was exhausted, and the scanty 
pittance afforded by his relatives withdrawn on the ground that 
he ought now to support himself, when his occasional inquiries 
after a situation at length led to the information that there was a 
vacancy for an outer clerk in the great house of Hillary, Hungate, 
& Co., Mincing Lane, in the city. He succeeded in satisfying the 
junior partner of this house, after submitting to a great number of 
humiliating inquiries in regard to his respectability and trustworthi- 
ness; and lie' was forthwith received into the establishment,, at a 
salary of £60 per annum. 

It was a sad day for poor Elliott when he sold off almost all his 
college books, and a few other remnants of gay and happy days, 
gone by probably forever, for the purpose of (quipping himself 
becomiugly for his new and humble functions. He wrote an ex- 
cellent hand; and being of a decided mathematical turn, the arith- 
metic of the counting-house was easily mastered. What dismal 
drudgery had he henceforth daily to undergo! The tyranny of the 


24 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


upper clerks reminded him, with a pang, of the petty tyranny he 
had both received and inflicted at the public school where he had 
been educated. How infinitely more galling and intolerable was his 
present bondage ! Two thirds of the day he was kept constantly 
on foot, hurrying from place to place, with bills, letters, etc., and on 
other errands; and especially on foreign post nights, he was detained 
slaving sometimes till nine or t en at night, copying letters, and 
assisting in making entries and balancing accounts, till his pen 
almost dropped from his wearied fingers. He was allowed an hour 
in the middle of the day for dinner; and even this little interval was 
often broken in upon to such an extent as proved seriously prejudicial 
to his health. After all the labors of the day, he had to trudge 
from Mincing Lane, along the odious City Road up to almost t lie 
extremity of Islington, where was situated his lodging, that is, a 
little back bedroom, on the third floor, serving at once for his sittiug- 
and sleeping-room, and for the use of which he paid at the rate of 
seven shillings a week, exclusive of extras. Still he conformed to 
nis cheerless lot, calmly and resolutely, with a true practical stoicism 
that did him honor. His regular and frugal habits enabled him to 
subsist upon his scanty salary with decency, if not comfort, and 
without lunning into debt — that infallible destructive of all peace 
of mind and all self-respect! Kis sole enjoyment was an occasional 
hour in the evening, spent in reading, and retracing some of his 
faded acquisitions in mathematics'. Though a few of his associates 
were piqued at what they considered his sullen and inhospitable 
disposition, yet his obliging manners, his easy but melancholy de- 
portment, his punctuality and exactitude in all his engagements, 
soon gained him the good-will of his brethren in the office, and oc- 
casionally an indication of satisfaction on the part of someone of bis 
august employers. 

Thus, at length, Elliott overcame the nuilierous desagrcments of 
his altered situation, seeking in constant employment to forget both 
the gloom and gayeties of the past. Two.or three years passed over, 
Elliott continuing thus steadily in his course; and his salary, as a 
proof of the approbation of his employers, had been annually in- 
creased by £10 till he was placed in comparative affluence b} 1, the re- 
ceipt of a salary of £90. His severe exertions, however, insensibly 
impaired a constitution, never very vigorous, and he bore with many 
a fit of ihdisposition, rather than incur the expense of medical at- 
tendance. It may be added, that Elliott was a man of gentlemanly 
exterior and engaging deportment— and then let us j>ass to a very 
different person. 


25 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 

Mr, Hillary, the head of the firm, a man of very great wealth, had 
risen from being a mere errand boy, to his present eminence in the 
mercantile world, through a rare combination of good fortune and 
personal merit — merit, as far as concerns a talent for business, joined 
with prudence and enterprise. If ever there came a man within the 
terms of Burke’s famous philippic, it was Mr. Hillary. His only 
objcct*was money-making; he knew nothing, cared for nothing be- 
yond it; till the constant contemplation of his splendid gains led his 
desires into the train of personal aggrandizement. With the in- 
stinctive propensities of a mean and coarse mind, he became as 
tyrannical and insolent in success as in adversity he had been supple 
and cringing. No spark of generous or worthy feelings had ever 
been struck from the fliuty heart of Jacob Hillary, of the firm of 
Hillary, Hungate, and Company. He was the idol ol a constant 
throng of wealth- worshipers; to everybody else, he was an object 
either of contempt or terro£ He had married the widow of a de- 
ceased partner, by whom he had had several children, of whom one 
only lived beyond infancy— a generous, high-spirited, enthusiastic 
girl, whom her purse-proud father had destined, in his own weak 
and vain ambition, to become the wearer of a coronet. On this 
dazzling object were Mr. Hillary’s eyes fixed with unwavering ear- 
nestness; he desired anti longed to pour the tide of his gold through 
the channel of a peerage. In person, Mr. Hillary was of the middle 
height, but gross and corpulent. There was no intellect in his shin- 
ing bald head, fringed with bristling white hair— nor was there any 
expression in his harsh and coarse features, but such as faithfully 
adumbrated his character as above described. 

• This was the individual, who, in stepping one morning rather 
hastily from his carriage, at his counting-house door in Mincing 
Lane, fell from the carriage step., most severely injuring his right 
ankle and shoulder. The injuries he received upon this occasion 
kept him confined for a long period to liis bed, and for a still longer 
one to an easy-chair in the back drawing-room of his spacious man- 
sion near Highbury. As soon as he was able to attend to business, 
he issued orders that as Elliott was the clerk whose residence was 
nearest to Bullion House, he should attend him every morning for 
.an hour or two on matters of business, carrying Mr. Hillary’s orders 
to the city, and especially bringing him, day by day, in a sealed en- 
velope, his banker’s book! A harassing post this proved for poor 
Elliott. 

Severe discipline had trained his temper to bear more than most 
jnen: on these occasions it was tried to the uttermost.. Mr. Hillary’s 


THE MERCHANT^ CLERtf. 


^6 

active and energetic mind kept thus in compaiative and compulsive 
seclusion from the only concerns, he cared for or that could occupy 
it — always excepting the one great matter already alluded to— his 
imperious and irritable temper became almost intolerable. Elliott 
would certainly have thrown up his employment under Mr. Hillary 
in disgust and despair, had it not been for one circumstance— the 
presence of Miss Hillary — whose sweet appealing looks day after day 
melted away the resolution with which Elliott every morning came 
befo r e her choleric and overbearing father, although they could not 
mitigate that father’s evil temper, or prevent its manifestations. He 
insisted on her spending the greater part of every day in his presence, . 
nor would allow her to quit it even at the periods when Elliott made 
his appearance. The first casual and hasty glance that he directed 
toward her, satisfied him that he had, in earlier and happy days, 
been many times in general society wjtli her — her partner even in 
the dance. Now, however, he dared not venture to exhibit the 
slightest indication of recognition; and she, if struck by similanrec- 
ollections, thought fit to conceal them, and behave precisely as 
though she then saw and heard of Mr. Elliott for the first lime in 
her life. He could not, of course, find fault with her for this; but 
he felt it deeply and bitterly. He little knew how much he 
wronged her! She instantly recollected him— and it '.vas only the 
dread of her father that restrained her from a friendly greeting. 
Having once adopted such a line of conduct, it became necessary to 
adhere to it — and she did. But could she prevent her heart going 
out in sympathy toward the poor, friendless, unoffending clerk whom 
her father treated more like a mere menial than a respectable and 
confidential servant — him whom she knew to be 

“ Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate ”? 

Every day that she saw him, her woman’s heart throbbed with pity 
toward him; and pity is indeed akin to love. How favorably for 
him did his temper and demeanor contrast with those of her father! 
And she saw him placed daily in a situation calculated to exnibit 
his real character— his disposition, whether for good or evil. The 
fact was, that he had become an object of deep interest — even of 
love — to her, long before the thought had ever occurred to him that 
she viewed him, from day to day, with feelings different from those 
with which she would look at the servant that stood at her father’s 
sideboard at dinner. His mind was kept constantly occupied by his . 
impetuous etnployer, and his hundred questions about everything 


27 


THE MERCHANT'S’ CLERK. 

that had or had not happened every day in the city. Thus tor 
nearly three months had these unconscious lovers been brought daily 
for an hour or two into each other’s presence. He had little idea of 
the exquisite pain occasioned Miss Hillary by her father’s harsh and 
unfeeling treatment of him, nor of the many timid attempts she 
made, in his absence, to prevent the recurrence Dt such treatment; 
and.as for the great man, Mr. Hillary, it never crossed his mind as 
being possible that two young hearts could, by any means, when in 
different, ranks of society, one rich, the other poor, be warmed into 
a feeling of regard, and even love fc. r one another. 

One afternoon Elliott was obliged to come a second time that day 
from the city, bearing important dispatches from Mincing Lane to 
Mr. Hillary, who was sitting in his invalid-chair, flanked on one 
hand by his daughter, and on the other by a little table, on which 
stood wine and fruit. Poor Elliott looked, as well he might, ex- 
hausted with his long and rapid walk through the fervid sunshine. 

“ Well, sir — what now?” said her father, quickly and peremp- 
torily, at the same time eagerly stretching forth his hand to receive 
a letter which Elliott presented to him. 

“Humph! Sit down there, sir, for a few minutes!” Elliott 
obeyed. Miss Hillary, who had been reading, touched with Elliott’s 
pale and wearied look, whispered to her father, “ Papa— Mr. Elliott 
looks dreadfully tired— may 1 offer him a glass of wine?” 

“ Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Hillary, hastily, without removing his 
eyes from the letter he had that instant opened. Miss Hillary in- 
stantly poured out a glass of wine; and as Elliott approached to take 
it from the table, with a respectful bow, his eye encountered hers, 
which was instantly withdrawn; but not before it had ‘cast a glance 
upon him that electrified him— that fell suddenly like a spark of fire 
amid the combustible feelings of a most susceptible hut subdued 
heart. It fixed the fate of their lives. The train so long laid had 
been at length unexpectedly ignited, and the confounded clerk re- 
turned or rather staggered toward his chair, fancying that everything 
in the room was whirling around him. It. was well for both of them 
that Mr. Hillary was at that eventful moment absorbingly engaged 
with a letter announcing the sudden arrival of three ships with large 
cargoes of an article of which he had been attempting a monopoly, 
and in ‘doing so had sunk a very large sum of ready , money. In 
vain did the conscious and confused girl — confused as Elliott — re- 
move her chair to the -window, with her back toward him, and at- 
tempt to proceed with the book she had been reading. Her head 
seemed in a whirlpool. 


28 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


“ Get my my desk, Mary, immediately,” said her father, sud- 
denly. 

“No, indeed, papa, you didn’t,” replied Miss Hillary., as sud- 
denly, for her father’s voice had recalled her from a strange reverie. 

“ My desk, Mary— my desk— d’ye hear?” repeated her father, in 
a peremptory manner, still conning over the letter which told him, 
in eiiect, that he would retire to bed that night four or five thousand 
pounds poorer than he rose from it — ignorant that within the last few 
moments, in his very presence, bad happened that which was to put 
an end forever to all his dreams of a coronet glittering upon his 
daughter’s brow! 

Miss Hillary obeyed her father’s second orders, carefully looking 
in every direction but that in which she would have encountered 
Elliott; and whispering a word or two into her father’s ear, quitted 
the room. Elliott’s heart was beating quickly, when the harsh tones 
of Mr. Hillary, who had worked himself into a very violent humor, 
fell upon his ear, directing him to return immediately to the city, 
and say he had no answer to send till the morning, when he was to 
be in attendance at an early hour. 

Scarce knowing whether he stood on his head or his heels, Elliott 
hurriedly bowed, and withdrew. Borne along on the current of 
his tumultuous emotions, he seemed to fly down the swarming City 
Road; and when he reached' the dull dingy little back counting- 
house where lie was to be occupied till a late hour of the night, he 
found himself not in the fittest humor in the world for his task. 
Could he possibly be mistaken in interpreting Miss Hillary’s look? 
Was it not corroborated by her subsequent conduct? And, by the 
way, now that he came to glance backward into the two or three 
months during which he had been almost daily in her presence, 
divers little incidents started up into his recollections, all tending 
the same way. “ Ileighol” exclaimed Elliott, laying down his yet 
unused pen, after a long and bewildering reverie — “ 1 wonder what 
Miss Hillary is thinking about! Surely 1 have had a kind of day- 
dream! It can’t have really happened! And yet — how could there 
have been a mistake? Heaven knows 1 had taken nothing to excite 
or disorder me— except, perhaps, my long walk. Here’s a coup de 
soleil, by the w T ay, with a witness! But only to think of it— Miss 
Hillary— daughter of Jacob Hillary, Esq.— in love wdth— an under 
clerk of her father’s— pho! it will never do! I’ll think of it to- 
morrow^ morning.” Thus communed Elliott with himself, by turns 
writing, pausing, and soliloquizing, till the lateness of the houi 
Compelled him* to apply to his task in good earnest. He did pot, 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


20 


quit his desk till it had struck ten; from which period till that at 
which he tumbled into his little bed, he fancied that scarcely five 
minutes had elapsed. 

He made his appearance at Bullion House the next morning with 
a sad buttering about the heart, but it soon subsided, for Miss Hill- 
ary was not present to prolong his agitation. He had not been 
seated for many minutes, however, before he observed her in a dis- 
tant part of the gardens, apparently tending some flowers. -As his 
eye followed the movements of her graceful figure he could not 
avoid a faint sigh of regret at his own absurdity in raising such a 
superstructure of splendid possibilities upon so slight a foundation. 
His attention was at that instant arrested by Mr. Hillary’s multifari- 
ous commands for the city; and, in short, Miss Hillary’s absence 
from town for about a week added to a great increase of business 
at the counting-house, owing to an extensive failure of a foreign 
correspondent, gradually restored Elliott to his senses, and banished 
the intrusive image of his lovely tormentor. Her unequivocal ex- 
hibition of feeling, however — unequivocal at least to him— on the 
occasion of the next meeting, instantly revived all his former excite- 
ment, and plunged him afresh into the soft tumult of doubts, hopes 
and tears, from which he had so lately emerged. Every day that 
he returned to Mr. Hillary brought him fresh evidence of the extent 
to which he had encroached upon Miss Hillary’s affections; and 
strange, indeed, must be that heart which, feeling itself alone and 
despised in the world, can suddenly find itself the object of a most 
enthusiastic and disinterested attachment without kindling into a 
flame of grateful affection. Was there anything wondeiful or im- 
probable in the conduct attributed to Miss Hillary? No. A girl of 
frauk and generous feeling, she saw in one, whom undeserved mis- 
fortune had placed in a very painful and trying position, the con- 
stant exhibition of high qualities; a patient and dignified submission 
to her father’s cruel and oppressive treatment — a submission on her 
account; she beheld his high feeling conquering- misfortune; she 
saw in his eye — his every look — his whole demeanor, susceptibilities 
of an exalted description; and beyond all this— last, though not 
least, as Elliott acted the gentleman, so he looked it— and a hand- 
some gentleman, too! So it came to pass, then, that these two 
hearts became acquainted with each other, despite the obstacles of 
circumstance and situation. A kind of telegraphing courtship was 
carried on between them daily, which must have' been observed by 
Mr. Hillary, but for the engrossing interest with which he regarded 
the communications of which Elliott was always the bearer. Mr, 


30 


THE* MERCHANT^ CLERK. 


Hillary began, however, at length, to recover the use oi his limbs, 
and rapidly to gain general strength. He consequently announced 
one morning to Elliott that he should not require him to call after 
to-morrow. 

At this time the Joveis had never interchanged a syllable together, 
either verbal or written, that could savor of love; and yet each was 
as confident of the state of the other’s feelings as though a hundred 
closely-written, and closer-crossed letters, had been passing between 
them. On the dreadful morrow he was pale and somewhat con- 
fused, nor was she far otherwise; but she had a sufficient reason in 
the indisposition of her mother, who had for many months been a 
bed-ridden invalid. As for Elliott, he was safe. He might have 
appeared at death’s door without attracting the notice, or exciting 
the inquiries, of his callous employer. As he rose to leave the room 
Elliott bowed to Mr. Hillary; but his last glance was directed to- 
ward Miss Hillary, who, however, at that moment was, or appeared 
to be, too busily occupied with pouring out her excellent father’s 
coffee, to pay any attention to her retiring lover, who consequently 
retired from her presence not a little piqued and alarmed. 

They had no opportunity of seeing one another till nearly a month 
after the occasion just alluded to, when they met under circum- 
stances very favorable for the expression of such feelings as either 
of them dared to acknowledge — and the opportunity w r as not thrown 
away. Mr. Hillary had quitted town for the north, on urgent busi- 
ness, which was expected to detain him for nearly a fortnight; and 
Elliott failed not, on the following Sunday, to be at the post he had 
constantly occupied for some mouths — namely, a seat in the gallery 
of the church attended by Mr. Hillary and his family, commanding 
a distant view of the great central pew — matted, hassocked, and 
velvet-cushioned, with a rich array of splendid implements of de- 
votion, in the shape of Bibles and prayer-books, great and small, 
with gilt edges, and in blue and red morocco, being the favored 
spot occupied by the great merchant — where he was pleased by his 
presence to assure the admiring vicar of his respect for him and the 
Established Church. Miss Hillary had long since been aw r are of the 
presence of her timid and distant lover on these occasions; they had 
several times nearly jostled against one another in going out of 
church, the consequence of which was generally a civil though 
silent recognition of him. And this might be done with impunity, 
seeing how her wealthy father was occupied with nodding to every- 
body, genteel enough to be so publicly recognized, and shaking 
bands with the select few who enjoyed his personal acquaintance. 


THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 


31 


With what a different air and with what a different feeling did the 
great merchant and liia humble clerk pass on these occasions down 
the afsle. 

But to return. On the Sunday above alluded to Elliott beheld 
JUiss Hillary enter the church alone, and become the solitary tenant 
of the family pew. Sad truants from his prayer-book, his eyes 
never quitted the fair and solitary occupant of Mr. Hillary’s pew ; 
but she chose, in some wayward humor, to sit that morning with 
her back turned toward the part of the church where she knew 
Elliott to be, and never once looked up in that direction. They met, 
however, after the service, near the door, as usual: she dropped her 
black, v.eil just in time to prevent his observing a certain sudden 
flush that forced itself upon her features; returned his modest bow; 
a few words of course were interchanged; it threatened, or Elliott 
chose to represent that it threatened to rain (which he heartily 
wished it would, as she had come on foot, and unattended), and so, 
in short, it came to pass that this very discreet couple were to be 
seen absolutely walking arm-in-arm toward Bullion House, at the 
slowest possible pace, and by the most circuitous rouie that could 
suggest itself to the flurried mind of Elliott. An instinctive sense 
of propriety, or rather prudence, led him to quit her arm just before 
arriving at that turn of the rord which brought them full in sight 
of her father’s house. There they parted, each satisfied as to the 
nature of the other’s feelings, though nothing had then passed be- 
tween them of an explicit or decisive character. 

It is not necessary for me to dwell on this part of their history. 
Where there is a will, it is said, there is a way- and the young and 
venturous couple found, before long, an opportunity of declaring to 
dach other their mutual feelings. Their meetings and correspond- 
ence were contrived and carried on with the utmost difficulty. 
Great caution and secrecy were necessary to conceal the affair from 
Mr. Hillary, and jhose whose interest it was to give him early in- 
formation on every matter that in any way concerned him. Alisa 
Hillary buo3 r ed herself up with the hope of securing, in due time 
her mother, and obtaining her intercessions with her stern and 
callous-hearted father. Some three months, or thereabouts, after 
the Sundy just mentioned, Mr.. Hillary returned from the city, and 
made his appearance at dinner, in an unusually gay and lively 
humor. Miss Hillary was at a loss fo conjecture the occasion of 
such an exhibition; but imagined it must be some great speculation 
of his which had proved unexpectedly successful. He occasionally 
directed toward her a kind of grim leer, as though longiug to com- 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


3 * 

municate tidings which he expected to be as gratifying to her as 
they were to himself. They dined alone; and as she was retiring 
rather earlier than usual, in order to attend upon her mother, who 
. ha& that day been more than ordinarily indisposed, he motioned her 
to resume her seat. 

“ Well, Molly ’’—for that was the elegant version of her Chris- 
tian name -which he generally adopted when in a good humor— 
“ well, Molly,” pouring out a glass of wine, as the servants made 
their final exit, “ 1 have heard somelhing to-day in the city — ahem! 
in which you are particularly concerned — very much so — and — so— 
ahem!— am l!” He tossed off half of his glass, and smacked his 
lips as though he unusually relished the flavor. 

“ Indeed, papa!” exclaimed the young lady, with an air of anx- 
ious vivacity, not attempting to convey to her lips the brimming 
wine-glass her father had filled for her, lest the trembling of her 
hand should be observed by him. “ Oh, you are joking! what 
can I have to do with tlie city, papa?” 

“ Do? Aha, my girl! ‘ What can you have to do in the city,’ ” 
good-humoredly attempting to imitate her tone, “ indeed? Don’t 
try to piny mock modest with me! You know as well as I do what 
1 am going to say!” he added, looking at her archly, as he fancied, 
bilt so as to blanch her cheek and agitate her whole frame with an 
irresistible tremor. Her acute and feeling father observed her emo- 
tion. “ There now, that’s just the way all you young misses behave 
on these occasions! 1 suppose it’s considered mighty pretty! As if 
it wasn’t all a matter of eourse for a young woman to hear about a • 
young husband!” 

' Papa, how you do love a joke!” replied Miss Hillary, with a 
sickly smile, making a desperate effort to carry her wine-glass to 
her lips, in which she succeeded, swallowing every drop that was 
in it, while her father electrified her b 3 r proceeding: “ It’s no use 
mincing matters; the thing is gone too tar.” 

“ Gone too far!” echoed Miss Hillary, mechanically. 

“Yes, gone too far, 1 say, and 1 stick to it. A bargain’s a 
bargain all the world over, whatever it’s about; and a bargain 
I’ve struck to day. You’re mj r daughter— my only daughter, 
d’ye see — and I’ve been a good while on the lookout for a proper 
person to many you to; and, egad! to-day I’ve got him; my future 
son-in-law, d’ye hear, and one that will clap a coronet on my pretty 
Molly’s head; and on the day he does so, 1 do two things; 1 give 
you a plum, and myself cut Mincing Lane, and sink the shop for 


the merchant's clerk. . 33 

the rest of my days. There’s nuts for you to crack! Aha, Molly, 
what d’ye say to all this? An’t it news?” 

“ Say! Why 1— I— 1 — ” stammered the young lady, her face 
nearly as while as the handkerchief on which her eyes were vio- 
lently fixed, and with w T Uich her fingers were hurriedly playing. 

“Why, Molly! What’s the matter? What the , ahem! are 

you gone so pale for? Gad, I see how it is; 1 have been too abrupt, 
as your poor mother has it! But the thing is as 1 said, lhat’s flat, 
come what will, say it how* one will, take it how you will! So 
make up your mind, Mblly, like a good girl as you are; come, kiss 
me! 1 never loved you so much as now I’m going to lose you!” 

She made no attempt to rise from her chair, so he got up from 
his own, and approached her. 

“ Adad, but what’s the matter here? Your little hands are as 
cold as a corpse’s. Why, Molly, what— what nonsense.” He 
chucked her under the chin. “ You’re trying to frighten me, 
Molly, 1 know you are! ah-ha!” He grew more and more alarmed 
at. her deadly paleness and apparent insensibility to what he was 
saying. “ Well, now — ” he paused, and looked anxiously at her. 
“ AYho would have thought,” he added, suddenly, “ that it would 
have taken the girl aback so? Come, come!” slapping her smartly 
on the back, “ a joke’s a joke, and I’ve had mine, but it’s been car : 
ned too far, I’m afraid.” 

“ Dear — dearest papa,” gasped his daughter, suddenly raising 
her eyes, and fixing them with a steadfast brightening look upon 
his, at the same time catching hold ot his hands convulsively, “ so 
it is — a joke! a — joke — it is — it is;” and gradually sinking back in 
her chair, to her father’s unspeakable alarm, she swooned. Hold- 
ing her in his arms, he roared stoutly for assistance, and in a twink- 
ling a posse of servants, male and female, obeying the summons, 
rushed pell-mell into the dining-room; the ordinary hubbub attend- 
ant on a fainting fit ensued— cold water sprinkled, eau de Cologne, 
volatile salts, etc. Then the young lady, scarce restored to her 
senses, was supported, or rather carried, by her maid to her own 
apartment, and Mr. Hillary was left to himself for the remainder 
of the evening, flustered and confounded beyond all expression. 
The result of his troubled ruminations was, that the sudden com- 
munication of such prodigious good fortune had upset his daughter 
with joy, and that he must return to the charge in a day or two, and 
break it to her more easily. The real fact was, that he had that day 
assured the Right Honorable Lord Viscount Scamp of his daugh- 
ter’s heart, hand, and fortune; and that exemplary personage had 
8 


,°>4- THE MER/TTANT'S CLERK. 

agreed to dine at Bullion House on the ensuing Sunday, tor the pur- 
pose of being introduced to his future viscountess, whose noble fort- 
une was to place his financial matters upon an entirely new basis, 
at least for some time to eome, and enable him to show his honest 

face once more in divers amiable coteries at C ’s and elsewhere. 

Old Hillary’s dazzled eyes could see nothing but his lordship’s 
coronet; and he had no more doubt about his right thus to dispose 
of his daughter's heart than he had about his right to draw upon 
Messrs. Cash, Credit, & Co., his bankers, without first consulting 
them to ascertain whether they would honor his drafts. 

Miss Hillary did not make hei appearance the next morning at 
her father’s breakfast- table, her maid being sent to say that her 
young lady had a violent headache, and so forth ; the consequence 
of which was, that the old gentleman departed for the city in a ter- 
rible temper, as every member of this establishment could have tes- 
tified if they had been asked. Miss Hillary had spent an hour or 
two ot the preceding midnight in writing to Elliott a long and some- 
what incoherent account of what had happened. She gave but a 
poor account of herself to her father at dinner that day. He was 
morosely silent. She pale, absent, disconcerted. 

“ What the devil is the matter with you, Mary?” inquired Mr. 
Hillary, with stern abruptness, as soon as the servants had with- 
drawn; “what were all those tantrums of yours about last night, 
eh?” 

“ Indeed, papa,” replied his trembling daughter, “ 1 hardly 
know; but really, you must remember you said such very odd 
things, and so suddenly and you looked so angry.” 

“Tut, girl, plio! Fiddle f addle!” exclaimed her father, gulping 
down a glass ot wine with great energy. “ I could almost — ahem! 
— really, it looked as if you had taken a little too much, eh? What 
harm was there in me telling you that you were going soon to be 
married? What’s a girl born and bred up tor but to be married? 
Eh, Mary?” continued her father, determined, this time, to go to 
work with greater skill and tact than on the preceding evening. 
“ 1 want an answer, Mary!” 

“ Why, papa, it was a very odd thing now, was not it?” said his 
daughter, with an affectionate smile, drawing nearer to her father, 
her knees trembling, however, the while; “and ] know you did it 
only to try whether 1 was a silly vain girl! Why should 1 want to 
be married, papa, when you and my poor mamma are so kind to 
me?” 

“ Humph!” grunted her father, gulping down a great glass of 


THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 


35 


claret. “And d’ye think we’re to live forever? I must see yoii 
established before long, for my health, hem! hem! is none of the 
strongest ” (he had scarcely ever known what an hour’s illness was 
in his life, except his late accident, from Which he had completely 
recovered); “ and as for your poor mother, you know — ’’ A long 
pause ensued here. “Now, suppose,’’ continued the wily tactician, 
“suppose, Molly,’’ looking at her very anxiously, “suppose 1 
wasn’t in a joke last night, after all?” 

“ Well, papa—” 

“Well, papa!” echoed her father, sneeringly and snappishly, 
unable to conceal his ill humor; “ but it isn’t ‘ well, papa;’ 1 can’t 
understand all this nonsense. Mary, you must not give yourself 
airs. Did you ever hear — ahem!” — he suddenly stopped short, 
sipped his wine, and paused, evidently intending to make some im- 
portant communication, and striving, at the same time, to assume 
an unconcerned air— “ did you ever hear of the Right Honorable 
the Lord Viscount Scamp, Molly?” 

“"Yes; I’ve seen things about him now and then in the news- 
papers. Isn’t he a great gambler, papa?” inquired Miss Hillary, 
looking at her father calmly. 

“ No, it’s a lie,” replied her father, furiously, whirling about the 
ponderous seals of his watch. “ Has anyone been putting this into 
your head?” 

“ No one, indeed, papa, only the newspapers — ” 

“And you are such an idiot as to believe newspapers? Didn’t 
they say, a year or two ago, that my house was in for £20,000 when 
Gumarabic & Co. broke? And wasn’t that a great lie? 1 didn’t 
lose a fiftieth of the sum! No,” he added, after a long pause, 
“ Lord Scamp is no such thing. He’s a vastly agreeable young 
man, and takes an uncommon interest in city matters, and that’s 
saying no small thing for a nobleman of his high rank. Why, it's 
said he may one day be a duke!” 

“ Indeed, papa! And do you know him?” 

“ Y — y — es! Know him? Of course! Do you think 1 come and 
talk up at Highbury about everybody I know? Know Lord Scamp? 
He’s an ornament to the peerage.” 

“ How long have you known him, papa?” 

“How long, puss? Why this— a good while! However, he dines 
here on Sunday.” 

“ Dines here on Sunday! Lora Scamp dines here next Sunday? 
Oh, papa! this is another joke of yours!” 

“ Curse me, then, if 1 can see it! What the deuce is there so odd 


36 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


in my asking a nobleman to dinner, if 1 think it proper? Why, if 
it comes to that, 1 can buy up a dozen of (hem any day, if 1 choose;” 
and he thrust his hands deeply into his breeches pockets. 

“ Yes, dear papa, 1 know you could, if they were worth buying,” 
replied Miss Hillary, with a faint smile. “ Give me a great mer- 
chant before a hundred good-for-nothing lords!” and she rose, put 
her hands about his neck and kissed him fondly. 

“ Well — 1— I don’t think you’re so vastly far oft the mark there, 
at any rate, Polly,” said her father, with a subdued air of exulta- 
tion; “ but at the same time, you know, there may be lords as good 
as any merchant in the city of London— hem! and, after all, a lord’s 
a superior article, too, in respect of birth and breeding.” 

“ Yes, papa, they’re all well enough, I dare say, in their own cir- 
cles; but in their hearts, depend upon it, they only despise us poor 
citizens.” 

“ Us poor citizens — I like that!” drawled her father, pouring out 
his wine slowly with a magnificent air, and drinking it off in si- 
lence. “ You shall see, however, on Sunday, Poll! whether you’re 
correct — ” 

‘‘ What! am*l to dine with you?” inquired Miss Hillary, with 
irrepressible alarm. 

“ You to dine with us? Of course you will! Why the devil 
should not you?” 

“ My poor mamma—” 

“On— ahem! 1 mean— nonsense— you can go to her after dinner. 
Certainly, you must attend to her.” 

“ Very well, papa, 1 will obey you, whatever you like,” replied 
Miss Hillary, a sudden tremor running from head to foot. 

“ That’s a dear good girl — that’s my own Poll! And hearken,” 
he added, with a mixture of good humor and anxiety, “ make your- 
self look handsome; never mind the cost; money’s no object, you 
know? So tell that peit minx, your maid Joliffe, that 1 expect 
she’ll turn you out first-rate that day, if it’s only to save the credit 
of us— poor— merchants 1” 

“ Gracious, papa, but why are you really so anxious about my 
dressing so well?” 

Her father, who had sat swallowing glass after glass with unusual 
rapidity, at the same time unconsciously mixing his wines, put his 
finger to the side of his nose, and winked in a very knowing man- 
ner. His daughter saw her advantage in an instant; and with the 
ready tact of her sex resolved at once to find out all that was in her 
father’s heart concerning her. She smiled as cheerfully as she 


THE ME'RCHAHT ? S CLERK. 


37 


could, and affected to enter readily into all his feelings. She poured 
him out one or two glasses more of his favorite wine, and chattered 
as fast as himself, till she at length succeeded in extracting from 
him an acknowledgment tbat he had distinctly promised her to Lord 
Scamp, whose visit, on the ensuing Sunday, would be paid to her 
as to his future wife. Soon after this, she rang for candles; and kiss- 
ing her father who had fairly fallen asleep, she withdrew to her own 
room, and there spent the next hour or two in confidential converse 
with her maid Joliffe. 

Sunday came, and, true enough, with it Lord Scamp; a handsome 
heartless coxcomb, whose cool, easy assurance, and business-like at- 
tentions to Miss Hillary, excited in her a disgust she could scarcely 
conceal. In rain was her father’s eager and anxious eye fixed upon 
her; she maintained an air of uniform indifference; listened almost 
in silence, the silence of contempt, to all the lisping twaddle uttered 
by her would-be lover, and so well acted, in short, the part she had 
determined upon, that his lordship, as he drove home, felt some- 
what disconcerted at being thus foiled for, as he imagined, the first 
time in his life; and her father, after obsequiously attending his 
lordship to Iris cab, summoned his trembling daughter back from 
her mother’s apartment into the drawing-room, and assailed her 
with a fury she had never known him to exhibit, at least toward 
any member of his family. 

From that day might be dated the commencement of a kind of 
domestic reign of terror, at the hitherto quiet and happy Bullion 
House. The one great aim of her father concerning his daughter 
and his fortune had been— -or rather seemed on the point of being — 
frustrated by that daughter. But he was not lightly to be turned 
from his purpose. He redoubled his civilities to Lord Scamp, who 
kept up his visits with a systematic punctuality, despite the con- 
temptuous and disgustful air with which the young lady constantly 
received him. The right honorable roue was playing, indeed, for 
too deep a stake— an accomplished and elegant girl, with a hundred 
thousand pounds down, and nearly double that sum, he understood, 
at. her father's death— to admit of his throwing up the game, while 
the possibility of a chance remained. Halt the poor girl’s fortune 
was already transferred, in Lord Scamp’s mind, to the pockets of 
halt a dozen harpies at the turf and the table; so he was, as before 
observed; very punctual in his engagements at Bullion House, with 
patient politeness continuing to pay the most flattering attentions to 
Miss Hillary— and her father. Tne latter was kept in a state of con- 
stant fever. Conscious of the transparent contempt exhibited by his 


38 


THE MERCHANT'S^ CLERK. 


daughter toward her noble suitor, he could at length hardly look 
his lordship in the face, as day after day, he obsequiously assured 
him that “ Ihere wasn’t anything in it ’’—and that for all his daugh- 
ter's nonsense, he already “ felt himself a lord’s father in-law!” 

Miss Hillary’s life was becoming intolerable, subjected as she was 
to such systematic persecution, from which, at length, the sick- 
chamber of her mother scarce afforded her a momentary sanctuary. 
A thousand times she formed the desperate determination to confess 
all to her father, and risk the fearful consequences: for such she 
dreaded they would be, knowing well her father’s disposition, and 
the terrible frustration of his favorite schemes which was taking 
place. Such constant anxiety and agitation, added to confinement in 
her mother’s bed-chamber, sensibly affected her health; and at the 
suggestion of Elliott, with whom she contrived to keep up a fre- 
quent correspondence, she had at length determined upon opening 
the fearful communication to her father, and so be at all events de- 
livered from the intolerable presence and attentions of Lord Scamp. 

By what means it came to pass, neither she nor Elliott were ever 
able to discover; but on the morning of the day she had fixed for 
her desperate denouement, Mr. Hillary, during the temporary ab- 
sence of his daughter, returned from the city about two o’clock 
most unexpectedly, his manner disturbed, and his countenance pale 
and distorted. Accompanied by his solicitor, he made his way at 
once to his daughter’s apartment, with his own hand seized her 
desk and carried it down to the drawing-room, and forced it open. 
Frantic with fury, he was listening to one of Elliott’s fondest letters 
to his daughter being read by his solicitor as she unconsciously en- 
tered the drawing room, in walking attire. It would be in vain to 
attempt describing the scene that immediately ensued. Old" Hil- 
lary’s lips moved, but his utterance was choked by the tremendous 
rage which possessed him, and forced him almost to the verge of- 
madness. 'Trembling from head to foot, and his straining eyes ap- 
parently starting from their sockets, he pointed in silence to a little 
heap of opened letters lying on the table, on which stood also her 
desK. She perceived that all was discovered — and with a smothered 
scream fell senseless upon the floor. There, as far as her father 
was concerned, she might have continued; but his companion 
sprung to the bell, lifted her inanimate form from the floor, and 
gave her to the entering servants, who instantly bore her to iier own 
room. Mr. Jeffreys the solicitor, a highly respectable man, to whom 
Mr. Hillary had hurried the instant that he recovered from the first 
shock occasioned by discovering his daughter’s secret, vehemently 


39 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 

expostulated with bis client on hearing the violent and vindictive 
measures he threatened to adopt toward his daughter and Elliott; 
tor the tone of the correspondence which then lay before him had 
satisfied him of the fatal extent to which his daughter’s affections 
were engaged. 

Now her treatment of Lord Scamp was accounted for! Her dread- 
ful agitation on first hearing his intention concerning that young 
.nobleman and herself' was explained. So here was his fondest hope 
blighted — the sole ambition of his life defeated — and by one of his 
own— his inferior servants— an outer clerk on his establishment at 
Mincing Lane! Confounded by a retrospect into (he last few 
months, “ Where have been my eyes— my common sense?” he 
groaned; “ the devil himself has done it all, and made me assist in 
it! Oh, 1 see! 1 remember! Those cursed days when he came up 
from the city to me— and when— I must always have her with me! 
There the mischief was begun— oh, it’s clear as the daylight! I’ve 

done it! I’ve done it all! And now, by ! I’ll undo it all!” 

Mr. Jeffreys at length succeeded in subduing the excitement of his 
client, and bringing him to converse calmly on the painful and em- 
barrassing discovery that had been made. Innumerable were the 
conjectures as to the means by which this secret acquaintance and 
correspoD deuce had been carried on. Every servant in the house 
was examined — but in vaiD. Even Joliffe, his daughter’s maid, 
came at length, however strongly suspected, still undiscovered, out 
of the fierce and searching scrutiny. Poor Mrs. Hillary’s precarious 
situation even did not exempt her from the long and angry inquiries 
of her exasperated husband, She had really, however, been entirely 
unacquainted with the affair. 

The next morning Elliott was summoned from the city to Bullion 
House, whither he repaired accordingly about twelve o’clock, little 
imagining the occasion of his summons; for Miss Hillary had not 
communicated to him the intention she had formed of breaking the 
matter to her father, nor had she any opportunity of telling him 
of the alarming discovery that had taken place. He perceived, 
nevertheless, certain symptoms of disturbance in the ominous looks 
of the porter who opened the hall door and the servant who con- 
ducted him to the drawing room, where he found Mr. Hillary and 
another gentleman— Mr. Jeffreys— seated together at a table covered 
with papers, both of them obviously agitated. 

“ So, sir,” commenced Mr. Hillary, fixing his furious eyes upon 
Elliott as he entered, “ your villainy’s found out, deep as you are!” 

“ Villainy, sir!” echoed Elliott, indignantly, but turning very pale. 


40 


THE MERCHANT’S- CLERK. 


“ Yes, sir, villainy! villainy! d ble villainy! ay, it’s all found 

out! Ah— ah— you cursed scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Hillary, 
with quivering lips and shaking his fist at Elliott, 

“ For God’s sake, Mr. Hillary, be calm!” whispered Mr. Jef- 
freys, and then addressed Elliott with a quiet severity — “ Of course 
Mr Elliott, you are aware of the occasion of this dreadful agitation 
on the part of Mr. Hillary?” Elliott bowed with a stern inquisitive 
air, but did not open his lips. 

“You beggarly brute— you filthy d d upstart — you — you—” 

stammered Mr. Hillary, with uncontrollable fury, “ your father was 
a scoundrel before you, sir — he cut his throat, sir!” 

Elliott’s face whitened in an instant, his expanding eye settled 
upon Mr. Hillary, and his chest heaved with mighty emotion. It 
was happy for the old man that Elliott at length recollected in him 
the father of Mary Hillary. He turned his eye for an instant toward 
Mr. Jeffreys, who was looking at him with an imploring, compas- 
sionate expression; Elliott saw and felt that he was thunderstruck 
at the barbarity of his client. Elliott’s eye remained fixed upon Mr. 
Jeffreys for nearly a minute, and then filled with tears. Mr. Jef- 
freys muttered a few words earnestly in the ear of Mr. Hillary, who 
seemed also a little staggered at the extent of his last sally. 

“ TV ill you take a seat, Mr. Elliott?” said Mr. Jeffreys, mildly. 
Elliott bowed, but remained standing, his hat grasped by his left 
hand with convulsive force. “ You will make allowance, sir,” con- 
tinued Mr. Jeffreys, “ for the dreadful agitation of Mr. Hillary, and 
reflect that your own conduct has occasioned it.” 

“ So 3 r ou dare think of marrying my daughter, eh?” thundered 
Mr. Hillary, as if about to rise from his* chair. “ By — — , but I’ll 
spoil your sport though, i’ll be even with you!” gasped the old 
man, and sunk back panting in his seat. 

“ You can not really be in earnest, sir,” resumed Mr. Jeffreys, in 
the same calm and severe tone and manner in which he had spoken 
from the first, “ in thinking yourself entitled to form an attachment 
and alliance to Miss Hillary?” 

“ Why am I asked these questions, sir, and in this most extraordi- 
nary manner?” inquired Elliott, firmly.. “ Have 1 ever said one 
single syllable?” 

“ Oh, spare your denials, Mr. Elliott,” said Jeffreys, pointing 
with a bitter smile to the letters lying open on the table at which he* 
sat; “these letters of yours express your feelings and intentions 
pretty plainly. Believe me, sir, everything is known!” 

“ Well, sir, and what then?” inquired Elliott, haughtily; i‘ those 


THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 


41 


letters, 1 presume, are mine, addressed to Miss Hillary!” Jeffreys 
bowed. “ Well, t.hen, sir, 1 now avow the feelings those letters ex- 
press. 1 have formed, however unworthy myself, a fervent attach- 
ment to Miss Hillary, and I will die before 1 disavow it.” 

“ There! hear him! hark to the fellow! 1 shall go mad— I shall!” 
almost roared Mr. Hillary, springing out of his chair, and walking 
to and fro between it and that occupied by Mr. Jeffreys, with hur- 
ried steps and vehement gesticulations. “He owns it! he does! 
the — ” and he uttered a perfect volley of execrations. Elliott sub- 
mitted to them in silence. Mr. Jeffreys again whispered, energetically 
into the ear of his client, who resumed his seat, but with his eyes 
fixed on Elliott, and muttering vehemently to himself. 

“ You see, sir, the wretchedness that your most unwarrantable— 
your artful — nay, your wicked and presumptuous conduct has 
brought upon this family. 1 earnestly hope that it is not too late 
for you to listen to reason— to abandon your insane projects.” He 
paused, and Elliott bowed. “It is in vain,” continued Mr. Jef- 
freys, pointing to the letters, “ to conceal our fears that your atten- 
tions must have proved acceptable to Miss Hillary: but we give you 
credit for more honor, more good sense than will admit of your car- 
rying further this most unfortunate affair, of your persisting in such 
a wild — 1 must speak plainly— such an audacious attachment, one 
that is utterly unsuitable to your means, your prospects, your sta- 
tion, your birth, your education — ” 

“ You will be pleased, sir, to diop the last two words,” interrupt- 
ed Elliott, sternly. 

“Why, you fellow! why, you’re my clerk’ I pay you wages! 
YYm’re a hired servant of mine!” exclaimed Hillary, with infinite 
contempt. 

“ Well, sir,” continued Jeffreys, “ this affair is too important to 
allow of our quarreling about words. CQmmon sense must tell you 
that under no possible view of the case can you be a suitable match 
for Miss Hillary; and, therefore, common honesty enjoins the 
course you ought to pursue. However, sir,” he added, in a sharper 
tone, evidently piqued at the composure and firmness maintained 
by Elliott, “ the long and short of it is, that this affair will not be 
allowed to go further, sir. Mr. Hillary i3 resolved to prevent it— 
come what will!” 

“ Ay, so help me. God!” ejaculated Mr. Hillary, casting a fero- 
cious glance at Elliott. 

“ Well, sir,” said Elliott, with a sigh, “ what would you have me 
do? Pray, proceed, sir.” 


42 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 

“ Immediately renounce all pretensions, 1 9 replied Mr. Jeffreys, 
eagerly, “ to Miss Hillary ; return her letters— pledge yourself to 
discontinue your attempts to gain her affections, and I am author- 
ized to offer a foreign situation connected with the house you at 
present serve, and to guarantee you a fixed income of £500 a year.’ 1 

“ Ay! — hark’ee, Elliott, I’ll do all this, so help me, God!” sud- 
denly interrupted Mr. Hillary, casting a look of imploring agony at 
Elliott, who bowed respectfully, but made no reply. 

“ Suppose, sir,” continued Mr. Jeffreys, with an anxious and dis- 
appointed air, “ suppose, sir, for a moment, that Miss Hillary were 
to entertain equally . ardent feelings toward you with those which, 
in these letters, you have expressed to her — can you, as a man of 
honor — of delicacy — of spirit — persevere with your addresses where 
the inevitable consequence of success on your part must be her de- 
gradation from the sphere in which she has hitherto moved — her 
condemnation to straitened circumstances — perhaps to absolute 
want— for life! For believe me, sir, if you suppose that Mr, Hill- 
ary’s fortune is to supply you both with the means - of defying him 
—to support you in a life, on her part, of frightful ingratitude and 
disobedience, and on yours of presumption and selfishness, you will 
find yourself awfully mistaken!” 

“ He’s speaking the truth— by he is!” said Mr. Hillary, striv- 
ing to assume a calm manner. If you do come together after all 
this, d— n me if 1 don’t leave every penny 1 have in the world to a 
hospital — or to a jail — in which one of you may perhaps end your 
days, after all!” 

“ Perhaps, Mr. Elliott,” resumed Jeffreys, “lam to infer from 
your silence that you doubt — that you disbelieve these threats. If 
so, 1 assure you, you are grievously and fatally mistaken; you do 
not, believe me, know Mr. Hillary as 1 know him and have known 
him these twenty years and upward. 1 solemnly and truly assure 
you that he will as certainly do what he says, and forever forsake 
you both, as you are standing now before us!” He paused. 
‘‘Again, sir, you may imagine that Miss Hillary has property of 
her own— at her own disposal. Do not so sadly deceive yourself on 
that score! Miss Hillary has, at this moment, exactly £600 at her 
own disposal.” 

“ Ay, only £600— that’s the uttermost penny.” 

“ And how long is that to last? Come, sir, allow me to ask you 
what you have to say to all this?” inquired Mr. Jeffreys, folding 
his arms, and leaning back in bis chair,, with an air of mingled cha- 
grin and exhaustion. Elliott drew a long breath. 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


43 


“ 1 have but little to say, Mr. Jeffreys, in answer to what you have 
been stating,” he commenced, with a melancholy but determined 
air. ‘‘ However you may suspect me, and misconstrue and misre- 
present my character and motives, I never in my life meditated a 
dishonorable action.” He paused, thinking Mr. Hillary was about 
to interrupt him, but he was mistaken. Mr. Hillary was silently 
devouring every word that fell from Elliott, as also was Mr. Jef- 
freys. ”1 am here as a hired servant, indeed,” resumed Elliott, 
with a sigh, “ and 1 am the son of one who — who— was an unfortu- 
nate — ” His eyes filled, and his voice faltered. For some sec- 
onds there was a dead silence. The perspiration stood on every 
feature of Mr. Hillary’s agitated countenance. “ But of course, all 
this is as noiliing here.” He gathered courage, and proceeded with 
a calm and resolute air; “ 1 know how hateful 1 must now appear 
to you. 1 do deserve bitter reproof— and surely 1 have had it, for 
my presumption in aspiring to the hand and heart of Miss Hillary. 
1 tried long to resist the passion that devoured me, but in vain. 
Miss Hillary knew my destitute' situation; she had many opportu- 
nities of ascertaining my character; she conceived a noble affection 
for me— 1 returned her love; 1 was obliged to do it secretly, and as 
tar as that goes 1 submit to my censure — I feel — I know that 1 have 
done wrong! If Miss Hillary choose to withdraw her affection from 
me, 1 Vill submit though my heart break. If, on the contrary, she 
continue to love me ” — his eye brightened — “ 1 am not cowardly or 
base enough to undervalue her love.” (Here Mr. Hillary struggled 
with Mr. Jeffreys, who, however, succeeded in restraining his cli- 
ent.) “ If Miss Hillary condescend to become my wife—” 

*' Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! oh, Lord!” groaned Mr. Hillary, clasping 
his hands upon his forehead; “open the windows, Mr. Jeffreys, or 
1 shall be smothered. 1 am dying — 1 shall go mad!” 

”1 will retire, sir,” said Elliott, addressing Mr. Jeffreys, who 
was opening the nearest window. 

“ No, but you sha’n’t though,” gasped Mr. Hillary; “ you shall 
stop here”— he panted for breath. ‘‘Hark’ee, sir— d’ye hear, 
Elliott— listen ” — he could not recover his breath. Mr. Jeffreys 
implored him to take time, to be cool. ‘‘ Yes; now I’m cool enough 
— I’ve — taken time— to consider— I have! Hark’ee, sir— if you 
dare to think— of having — my daughter— and if she— is such a 
cursed fool— ?-S to think of having— you ”— he stopped for a few 
seconds for want of breath—” why— look’ee, sir— so help me God— 
y.ou may both— both of you— and your children— if you have any — 
die in the streets— like dogs— I’ve done with you— both of you— 


44 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK, 


not a farthing— not a morsei ot bread— d — n me it 1 do!” Here he 
breathed like a hard-run horse. “ Now, sir — like a thief as you 
are!— go on courting— my daughter- marry her! ruin her! go, and 
believe that nil I'm saying is— a lie!— go. and hope— that, by and 
by, I’ll forgive you — and all that — try it, sir! Marry, and see 
whether I give in! I ll teach you— to rob an old man — of his child! 
The instant you leave this house, sir — this gentleman — makes my 
will— he does! — and wlien I’m dead — you may both of you — go to 
Doctors’ Commons— borrow a shilling, if you can— and see it your 
names— or your children’s— are in it, ha, ha, ha!” he concluded, 
with a bitter and ghastly laugh, snapping his shaking fingers at 
Elliott. “ Get away, sir— marry after this, if you dare!” 

Elliott almost reeled out of the room, ami did not fully recollect 
himself till the groom of his aristocratic competitor, Loyd Scamp, 
whose cab was dashing up to the gates of Bullion House, shouted 
to him to get out of the way, or be driven over! 

Elliott returned to his desk, at Mincing Lane, too much agitated 
and confused, however, to be able to attend to business. He there- 
fore obtained a reluctant permission to absent himself till the mor- 
row. Even the interval thus afforded, however, he was quite in- 
capable of spending iu the reflection required by the very serious 
situation in which he had been so suddenly placed. He could not 
bring his mind to bear distinctly upon any point of his interview 
with Mr. Hillary and Mr. Jeffreys; and at length, lost and bewild- 
ered in a maze of indefinite conjecture— of painful hopes and fears, 
be retired early to bed. There, after tossing about for several 
hours, he at length dropped asleep— and awoke at an early hour 
considerably refreshed and calmed. Well, then, - what was to be 
done? 

He felt a conviction that Mr. Hillary would be an uncompromis- 
ing —an inexorable opponent of their marriage, however long they 
might postpone it with the hope of wearing out or softening away 
his repugnance to it; and that if they married in defiance of him, 
he would fullfill every threat he had uttered. Of these two points 
he felt as certain as of his existence. 

He felt satisfied that Miss Hillary’s attachment to him was ardent 
and unalterable; and that nothing short of main force would pre- 
vent her from adopting any suggestion he might offer. As for him- 
self, he was passionately— and his heart loudly told him disinterest- 
edly attached to her; he could, therefore, as far as he himself was 
concerned, cheerfully bid adieu to all hopes of enjoying a shilling 
of her father’s wealth, and be joyfully content to labor for their 


i 


THE MERCHANT'S CEE RIv. 


45 


daily bread. But a fearful array of contingencies liere presented 
themselves before him. Suppose they married, they would cer- 
tainly have £600 to commence with ; but suppose his health failed 
him, or from any other cause he should become unable to support 
himself, a wife, and— it might be— a large family, how soon would 
£600 disappear? And what would be then before them? His heart 
shrunk from exposing the generous and confiding creature whose 
love he had gained, to such terrible dangers. He would — he would 
— write to her, and entreat her to forget him— to obey the reasonable 
wishes of her father. He felt that Mr. Hillary had great and griev- 
ous cause for complaint against him; could make every allowance 
for his feelings, and forgive their coarse and extravagant manifesta- 
tion; aDd yet, when he reflected upon some expressions he had let 
fall — upon the intense and withering scorn and contempt with which 
he had been treated, the more he looked at this view of the case, tlie 
more he felt the spirit of a man swelling within him. He never trod 
so firmly, nor carried himself so erectly, as he did on his way down 
to the city that morning. 

But then again— what misery was poor Miss Hillary enduring! 
What cruel and incessant persecution was being inflicted upon her; 
but she, too, had a high and bold spirit; he kindled as he pursued 
his meditations; he felt that the consciousness of kindred qualities 
endeared her to him tenfold more even than before. 

Thus he communed w ith himself, but at length he determined on 
writing the letter he had proposed, and did so that night. 

He was not dismissed, as he had expected, from the service of Mr. 
Hillary, who retained him, at the suggestion of Mr. J effreys— that 
shrewd person feeling that he could then keep Elliott’s movements 
more distinctly under his own eyes, and have more frequent oppor- 
tunities of negotiating with him on behalf of Mr. Hillary. Elliott’s 
position in the establishment was such as never brought him into per- 
sonal contact with Mr. Hillary; and apparently no one but himself 
and Mr. Hillary were acquainted with the peculiar circumstances in 
'which he was placed. As before hinted, Mr. Jeffreys was incessant 
in his efforts, both personally and by letter, to induce Elliott to 
break off the disastrous connection; and, from an occasional note 
which Miss Hillary contrived— despite all the espionage to which she 
was subjected— to smuggle to him, he learned, with poignant sor- 
row, that his apprehensions of the treatment she would receive at 
the hands of her father were but too well founded. She repelled 
with an affectionate and indignant energy, his offers and proposals to 
break off the affair. She told him that her spirit rose with the 


46 


THE MERCHANT’S CLER&. 


cruelty she suffered, and declared herself ready, if he thought fit, to 
fly from the scene of trouble, and be united to him forever Many 
and many a sleepless night did such communications as these insure 
to Elliott. He saw infinite danger in attempting a clandestine mar- 
riage with Miss Hillary, even should she be a readily consenting 
party. His upright and manly disposition revolted fronf a measure 
so underhand, so unworthy, and yet, what other course lay open to 
them? His own position at the counting-house was becoming very 
trying and painful. It soon became apparent, that, on some account 
or another, he was an object of almost loathing disregard to the 
august personage at the head of the establishment, and the conse- 
quence was, an increasing infliction of petty annoyances and hard- 
ships by those connected with him in daily business. He was re- 
quired to do more than he had ever before been called upon to do, 
and felt himself the subject of frequent and offensive remark, as 
well as suspicion. 'The ill treatment of his superiors, however, and 
the impertinences of his equals and inferiors, he treated with the same 
patient and resolute contempt, conducting himself with the utmost 
vigilance and circumspection, and applying to business, however 
unjustly accumulated upon him, with an energy, perseverance, and 
good humor, that only the more mortified his unworthy enemies. 
Poor Elliott! why did he continue in the service of Hillary, Hun- 
gate, & Company? How utterly chimerical was the hope he some- 
times entertained of its being possible that bis exemplary conduct 
could ever make any impression upon the hard heart of .Mr, Hillary! 

Miss Hillary did really, as has been just stated, suffer a martyr- 
dom at Bullion House, at the hands of her fatther Everyday 
caresses and curses were alternated, and she felt that she w as in fact 
a prisoner--her every movement watched, her every look scrutinized. 
Mr. Hillary frequently caused to be conveyed to her reports the 
most false and degrading concerning Elliott; but they were such 
transparent fabrications, as of course to defeat the euds proposed. 
She found some comfort in the society of her mother, who, though 
for a long time feeling and expressing strong disapprobation of her 
daughter’s attachment to Elliott, at length relented, and even en 
deavored to influence Mr. Hillary on their daughter’s behalf Her 
kind offices were, however, suddenly interrupted by a second attack 
of paralysis, which deprived her of the power of speech and motion. 
This dreadful shock, occurring at such a moment, was too much tor 
Miss Hillary, who was removed from attending affectionately at the 
bedside of her unhappy mother, to her own room, where she lay for 
nearly a fortnight in a violent fever. So far from these domestic 


THE .MERCHANT'S CLERK, 


47 


trials tending, however, to soften the heart of Mr Hillary, they ap 
parently contributed only to harden it— to aggravate his hatred of 
Elliott— of him who had done so much to disturb, to destroy his 
domestic peace, his fondest wishes and expectations 
Lord Scamp continued his interested and flattering attentions to 
Mr. Hillary, with whom he was continually dining, and at length— 
a proof of the prodigious ascendency he had acquired over Mr. Hil- 
lary — succeeded in borrowing from him a very considerable sum of 
money. Hillary soon apprized his lordship of the real nature of the 
hinderance to his marriage with Miss Hillary; and his lordship of 
course felt it his duty, not to speak of his interest, to foster and un- 
flame the fury of his wished -for father-in-law against Hie obscure 
and presumptuous rival. Several schemes were proposed by this 
worthy couple for the purpose of putting an end to the pretensions 
and prospects of this “ insolent parvenu of the outer counting- 
house.” An accidental circumstance at length suggested to them a 
plot so artful and atrocious, that poor Elliott fell a victim to ufi. 

* On returning to the couDting-house, one day, from the little chop- 
house at which he .Had been swallowing a hasty and frugal dinner, 
he observed indications of some unusual occurrence. ETo one spoke 
to him; all seemed to look at him as with suspicion and alarm. He 
had hardly hung up his hat, and reseated himself at his desk, when 
a message was brought to him from Mr. Hillary, who required his 
immedate attendance in his private room. Thither, therefore, he 
repaired, with some surprise— and with moie surprise beheld all the 
partners assembled, together with the head clerk, the solicitor of the 
firm, and one or two strangers. He had hardly closed the door 
after himself, when Mr. Hillary pointed to him, sayings “This is 
your prisoner — take him into custody.” 

“ Surrender, sir— you’re oar prisoner,” said one of the two 
strangers, both of whom now advanced to him, one laying bold of 
his collar, the other fumbling in his pocket, and taking out a pair 
of handcuffs. Elliott staggered several paces from them on hearing 
the astounding language of Mr. Hillary, and but that he was held 
by the officer who grasped his collar, seemed likely to have fallen. 
He turned deadly pale. For a second or two be spoke not 

“ Fetch a glass of water,” said Mr Fleming, one of the partners, 
observing Elliott’s lips losing their color, and moving without utter- 
ing any sound. But he recovered himself from the momentary 
shock, without the aid .of the water, which seemed to have been 
placed in readiness beforehand, so soon was it produced. Pushing 
aside the officer’s hand that raised the glass to his lips, he exclaimed, 


48 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


“ What is the meaning of this, sir? How dare you deprive me of 
my liberty, sir?”— addressing Mr. Hillary, “ What am I charged 
with?’’ 

“Embezzling the money of your employers,” interposed the 
solicitor, As he spoke, poor Elliott fixed upon him a stare of horror, 
and after standing and gazing in silence for several moments, at- 
tempted to speak, but in vain; and fell in a kind of fit into the arms 
of the officers. When he had recovered, he was conducted to a 
hackney-coach which had been for some time in readiness, and con- 
veyed to the police office; where, an hour or two afterward, Mr, 
Hillary, accompanied by Mr. Fleming, the solicitor, and two of 
Elliott’s fellow-clerks, attended to prefer the charge. Elliott was 
immediately brought to the bar, where he stood very pale, but calm 
and self-possessed, his eyes fixed upon Mr. Hillary, with a steadfast 
searching look that nothing could have sustained-but his indignant 
consciousness of innocence. He heard the charge preferred against 
him without uttering a word. The firm had reason tor some time, 
it was said, to suspect that they were robbed by some member of 
their establishment; that suspicion fell at length upon the prisoner; 
that he was purposely directed that day to go unexpectedly to din- 
ner, having been watched during the early part of the morning; that 
his desk was immediately opened and searched, and three five- pound 
notes, previously marked (and these produced so marked), found in 
his pocket-book, carefully hid under a heap of papers; that he had 
been several times lately seen with bank-notes in his hand, which 
he seemed desirous of concealing; that he had been very intimate 
with one of his fellow-clerks, who was now in Newgate, on a charge 
similar to the present; that the firm had been robbed to a consider- 
able amount; that Elliott had only that morning been asked by one 
of the clerks, then present, to lend him some money, when the pris- 
oner replied that he had not got £5 in the world. All this, and 
more, Elliott listened to without uttering a syllable. 

“ Well, sir,” said one of the magistrates, “ what have you to say 
to this very serious charge?” 

“ Say!— why can you believe it, sir?” replied Elliott, with a 
frank air of unaffected incredulity. 

“ Do you deny it, sir?” inquired the magistrate, coldly. 

“ Yes, 1 do! Peremptorily, indignantly 1 It is absurd! 1 rob 
my employers? They know better— that it is impossible!” 

“ Can you prove that this charge is false?” said the magistrate, 
with a matter-of-fact air. “ Can you explain, or deny the facts that 
have just been sworn to?” Elliott looked at him, as if lost in 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


49 


thought. “ Do you hear me, sir?'’ repeated the magistrate, sternly; 
“you are not bound to say anything; and I would caution you 
against saying anything to criminate yourself.” Still Elliott paused. 

“ It you are not prepared, 1 will remand you for a week, before 
committing you to prison.” 

“ Commit me to prison, sir!” repeated Elliott, with at once a 
perplexed and indignant air — “ why, I am as innocent as yourself!” 

“ Then, sir, you will be able easily to account for the £15 found 
in your desk this morning?” 

“ Ah, yes — 1 had forgotten that — 1 deny the fact. They could 
not have been found in my desk — for 1 have not more than £4 and 
a tew shillings in the world, till my next quarter’s salary becomes 
due. 5 ’ 

“ But it is sworn here— you heard it sworn as well as I did— that 
the money was found there. Here are the witnesses— }mu may ask 
them any questions you think proper— but they swore to the fact 
most distinctly.” 

“ Then, sir,” said Elliott, with a start, as if electrified, with some 
sudden thought — “ 1 see it all! Oh, God, 1 now see it alll It was 
placed there on purpose! It is a plot laid to ruin me!” He turned 
round abruptly toward Mr. Hillary, and fixing a piercing look upon 
him, he exclaimed in a low voice, “ Oh, monster!” He was on the 
eve of explaining Mr. Hillary’s probable motives— but the thought 
of his daughter suddenly sealed his lips. “ Sir,” said he, presently, 
addressing the magistrate, “ I take God to witness that 1 am inno- 
cent of this atrocious charge. Iam the victim of a conspiracy— 
commit me, sir — commit me at once. 1 put my trust in God — the 
Father of the fatherless!” 

The magistrates seemed struck with what he had said, and much 
more with his manner of saying it. They leaned back and con- 
ferred together for a fev minutes. 44 Our minds are not quite satis- ’ 
fied,” said the one who had already spoken, 44 as to the propriety of 
immediately committing the prisoner to Newgate. Perhaps stronger 
evidence may be brought forward in a few days. Prisoner, you are 
remanded for a week.” 

”1 hope, sir,” said Mr. Hillary, 44 that, he will by that time be 
able to clear his character— oothing 1 wish more. It’s a painful 
thing to me and my partners to have to press such a charge as this; 
but we must protect ourselves from the robbery of servants!” This 
was said by the speaker to the magistrates; but he did not dare to 
look at the prisoner, whose piercing indignant eye he felt to be fixed 
on him, and to follow his every motion. 


50 


THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 


That day week Elliott was fully committed to Newgate; and on 
the next morning the following paragraph appeared in the news- 
papers: 

“ Street. Henry Elliott, a clerk in the house of Hillary, 

Hungate & Company, Mincing Lane (who was brought to this 
office a week ago, charged with embezzling the sum of £15, the 
money of his employers, and suspected of being an accomplice of 
the young man who was recently committed to Newgate from this 
office on a similar chafge), was yesterday fully committed for trial. 
He is, we understand, a young man of respectable connections and 
excellent education. From his appearance and demeanor he would 
have seemed incapable of committing the very serious offense with 
which he stands charged. He seemed horror-struck on the charge 
being first preferred, and asseverated his innocence firmly and in a 
very impressive manner, declaring that he was the victim of a con- 
spiracy. In answer to a question of the magistrate, one of his em 
ployers stated, that up to the time of preferring this charge, the 
prisoner had borne an excellent character in the house.” 

The newspaper containing this paragraph found its way, on the 
evening of the day on which it appeared, into' Mis9 Hillary’s room, 
through her maid, as she was preparing to undress, and conveyed 
to her the first intimation of poor Elliott’s dreadful situation. The 
moment she had read it, she sprung to her feet, pushed aside her 
maid, who attempted to prevent her quitting her apartment, and 
with the newspaper in her hand, flew wildly down the stairs and 
burst into the dining-room, where her father was sitting alone, in his 
easy-chair, drawn close to the fire. “ Father!” she almost shrieked, 
springing to within a yard or two of where he was sitting — 4 ‘ Henry 
Elliott robbed jou! Henry Elliott in prison! A common thief!” 
pointing to t.he newspaper, with frantic vehemence, “Is it so? 
And you his accuser? Oh, no! no! never!” she exclaimed, a wild 
smile gleaming on her pallid countenance, at the same time sweep- 
ing to and fro before her astounded father, with swift but stately 
steps, continuing, as she passed and tepassed him, “No, sir! no! 
no! no! Oh, for shame! for shame, father! Shame on you! shame! 
His father dead! his mother dead! No one to feel for him! no one 
to protect him! no one to love him — but— -me!” And accompany- 
ing the last few w r ords with a loud and thrilling laugh, she fell at 
full length insensible upon the floor. 

Her father sat cowering in his chair, with his hands partially 
elevated — feeling as though an angry angel had suddenly flashed 
upon his guilty privacy; and when his daughter fell, he had not the 


THE MERCHANT S CLERK, 


51 


power to quit his chair and go to her relief tor several seconds. A 
horrible suspicion crossed his mind, that she had lost her reason ; 
and he spent the next hour and a half in a perfect ecstasy of terror. 
As soon, however, as the apothecary summoned to her assistance 
had assured him that there were, happily, no grounds for his fears 
— that she had had a very violent fit of hysterics, but was now re- 
covered, and fallen asleep— he ordered the horses to his carriage, 
and drove oft at top speed to the chambers of his city solicitor, Mr. 
Newington, to instruct him to procure Elliott’s instant discharge. 
That, of course, was utterly impossible; and Mr. Hillarys almost 
stupefied with terror, heard Mr. Newington assure him that the 
King of England himself could not accomplish such t.n object! That 
Elliott must now remain in prison till the day of trial — about a 
month or si£ weeks hence — and then be brought to the bar as a 
felon; but there w*ere but two courses to be pursued on that day, 
either not to appear against the prisoner, and forfeit all the recog- 
nizances, or to appear in open court, and state that the charge was 
withdrawn, and that it had been founded entirely on a mistake. 
That even then, in either case, Elliott, it really innocent (Mr. New. 
ington was no party whatever to the fraudulent concoction of the 
charge, which was confined to Mr. Hillary and Lord Scamp), would 
bring an action at law against Mr. Ilillary, and obtain, doubtless, 
very large damages for the disgrace, and danger, and injury which 
Mr. Hillary’s unfounded charge had occasioned him; or, more seri- 
ous still, he might'perhaps indict all the parties concerned for a con- 
spiracy. 

“ But,” said Mr. Hillary, almost sick with fright at this alarming 
statement of the liabilities he had incurred, “1 would not wait for 
an action to be brought against me — I would pay him any sum you 
might recommend, and that, too, instantly on his quitting the prison 
walls.” 

“ But, pardon me, Mr. Hillary— why all this?” 

“ Oh — something of very great importance has just happened at 
my house, which— which — gives me quite a different opinion. But 
I was saying 1 would pay him instantly—” 

“ But if the young man be spirited, and conscious of his inno- 
cence, and choose to set a high value upon his character, he will 
insist on clearing it in open court, and dare you to the proof of your 
charges before the whole world— at least 1 should do so in such a 
case. ’ ’ 

“ You would — would you, sir?” exclaimed Mr. Hillary, angril} r , 
the big drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead. 


52 


THE MERCHANT CLERK. 


“ Certainly— certainly — I should, indeed; but let that pass: 1 
really don’t see — ” continued Mr. Newington, anxiously. 

“ D— n him, then!” cried Mi. Hillary, desperately, after a pause, 
snapping his fingers, “ let him do his worst! He can never find 
me out.” 

“ Eh? what?” interrupted Newington, briskly, “ find you out? 
"What can you mean, Mr. Hillary?” 

“ Why— a — ” stammered Mr. Hillary, coloring violently, add- 
ing something that, neither he himself nor Mr. Newington could uu 
derstand. The latter had his own surmises — somewhat vague, it is 
true— as to the meaning of Mr. Hillary’s words— especially coupling 
them, as he did instantly, with certain expressions he had heard 
poor Elliott utter at the police office. He was a prudent man, 
however, and seeing no particular necessity for pushing his in- 
quiries further, lie thought it best to let. matters remain as Mr. 
Hillary chose to represent them. 

Six weeks did poor Elliott lie immured in the dungeons of New- 
gate, awaiting his tiial— as a felon. What pen shall describe his 
mental sufferings during that period? Conscious of the most exalted 
and scrupulous integrity — he who had never designedly wronged a 
human being, even in thought — whom dire necessity only had 
placed in circumstances which exposed him to the devilish malice 
of such a man as Hillary — who stood alone, and with the exception 
of one fond heart, friendless in the world — whose livelihood de- 
pended on his daily labor, and who had hitherto supported himself 
with decency, not to say dignity, amid many grievous discourage- 
ments and hardships — this was the man pining amid the guilty 
gloom of the cells of Newgate* and looking forward each day with 
shuddering to the hour when he was to be dragged with indignity 
to the bar, and perhaps found guilty, on perjured evidence, of the 
shocking offense with which he was charged! And all this was the 
wicked contrivance of Mr. Elillary — the father of his Mary! And was 
he liable to be transported— to quit his country ignominiously and 
forever — to be banished with disgust and horror from the memory 
of her who had once so passionately loved him — as an impostor — a 
villain— a felon! He resolved not to attempt any communication 
with Miss Hillary, if indeed it were practicable; but to await, with 
stern resolution, the arrival of the hour that was either to crush him 
with unmerited but inevitable infamy and ruin, or expose and sig- 
nally punish those whose malice and. wickedness had sought to 
effect his destruction. What steps could he take to defend him- 
self? Where were his witnesses? Who would detect and expose 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


53 


the perjury of those who would enter the witness box on behalf of 
his wealthy prosecutors? Poor soul! Heaven support thee against 
thy hour of trouble, and then deliver thee! 

Miss Hillary’s fearful excitement, on the evening when she dis- 
covered Elliott’s situation, led to a slow fever, which confined 
her to her bed for nearly a fortnight; and when, at the end of that 
period, she again appeared in her father’s presence, it was only to 
encounter — despite her wan looks — a repetition of the harsh and 
cruel treatment she had experienced ever since the day on which be 
had discovered her reluctance to receive the addresses of Lord. 
Scamp. Day after day did her father bait her on behalf of his lord- 
ship — with alternate coaxing and cursing: all was in vain— for when 
Lord Scamp at length made her a formal offer of his precious “ hand 
and heart,” she rejected him with a quiet contempt which sent him, 
full of the irritation of wounded conceit, to pour his sorrows into 
the inflamed ear of her father. 

The name that was written on her heart— that was constantly in her 
sleeping and waking thoughts, Elliott— she never suffered to escape 
her lips. Her father frequently mentioned it to her, but she'listened 
in melancholy, oftener indignant silence. She felt convinced that 
there was foul play on the part of her father connected with Elliott’s 
incarceration in Newgate, and could sometimes scarcely conceal, 
when in his presence, a shudder of apprehension. And was it 
likely — was it possible— that such a measure toward the unhappy, 
persecuted Elliott, could have any other effect on the daughter, 
believing him, as she did, to be pure and unspotted, than to increase 
and deepen her affection for him — to present his image before her 
mind’s eye, as that of one enduring martyrdom on her account, and 
for her sake? 

At length came on the day appointed tor Elliott's trial, and it was 
with no little trepidation that Mr. Hillary, accompanied by Lord 
Scamp, stepped into his carriage, and drove down to the Old Bailey, 
where they sat together on the bench till nearly seven o’clock, till 
which time the court was engaged upon the trial of a man for 
forgery. Amid the bustle consequent upon the close of this long 
trial, Hillary, after introducing his noble friend to one of the aider- 
men, happened to cast his eyes to *he bar which had been just quit- 
ted by the death -doomed convict he had heard tried, when they fell 
upon the figure of Elliott, who seemed to have been placed there 
Tor some minutes, and was standing with a mournful expression 
of countenance, apparently lost in thought. Even Mr. Hillary’s 
Hard heart was almost touched by the altered appearance of his vie- 


54 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


time, who was greatly emaciated, and seemed scarce able to stand 
erect in liis most humiliating position. 

Mr. Hillary knew the perfect innocence of Elliott; and his own 
guilty soul thrilled within him, as his eye encountered for an instant 
the steadfast but sorrowful eye of the prisoner. In vain did he 
attempt to appear to be conversing carelessly with Lord Scamp, 
who was himself too much agitated to attend to him! The pris 
oner pleaded not guilty. No counsel had been retained for the 
prosecution, nor did any appear for the defense. The court, there- 
fore, had to examine the witnesses; and suffice it to say, that after 
about half an hour’s trial, in the course of which Hillary was called 
as a witness, and trembled so excessively as to call forth some 
encouraging expressions irom the bench, the judge who tried the 
case decided that there was no evidence worth a straw against the 
prisoner, and consequently directed the jury to acquit him, which 
they did instantly, adding their unanimous opinion, that the charge 
against him appeared both frivolous and malicious. 

“ Am 1 to understand, my lord, that 1 leave the court freed from 
all taint, from all dishonor?” inquired Elliot, after the foreman had 
expressed the opinion of the jury. 

“ Certainly— most undoubtedly 3'ou do,” replied the judge. 

“ And if 1 think fit, 1 am at liberty hereafter to expose and punish 
those who have wickedly conspired to place me here on a false 
charge?” 

“ Of course you have your remedy against any one,” replied the 
cautious judge, “ whom you can prove to have acted illegally.” 

Elliott darted a glance at Mr. Hillary, which made his blood rush 
tumultuously toward his guilty heart, and bowing respectfully to 
the court, withdrew from the ignominious spot which. he had been 
so infamously compelled to occupy. He left the prison a little after 
eight o’clock; and wretched indeed were his feelings as the turn- 
key, opening the outermost of the iron-bound and spiked doors, 
bade him farewell, f gruffly adding, “ Hope we mayn’t meet again, 
my hearty!” 

“ 1 hope not, indeed!” replied Elliott, with a sigh; and descend- 
ing the steps, found himself in the street. He scarce knew, for a 
moment, whither to direct his steps, staggering, overpowered with the 
strange feeling of suddenly recovered liberty. The sad reality, how- 
ever, soon forced itself upOh him. What was to become of him? 
He felt wearied and faint, and almost wished he had begged the 
favor of sleeping, for the night, even in the dreary dungeons from 
which he had been but that moment released. Thus his thoughts 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


55 


were occupied, as he moved slowly toward Fleet Street, when a 
female figure approached him, muffled in a large shawl. 

“Henry — dearest Henry!” murmured the half-stifled voice of 
Miss Hillary, stretching toward him bo! h her hands; “ so you are 
free! You have escaped from the snare of the wicked! Thank 
God — thank God! Oh, what have we passed through since we last 
met! Why, Henry, will you not speak to me? Do you forsake the 
daughter for the sin of her father?” 

Elliott stood staring at her as if stupefied. 

“ Miss Hillary?” he murmured, incredulously. 

“ Yes — yes! 1 am Mary Hillary; 1 am your own Mary. But, 
oh, Henry, how altered you are! How thin! How pale and ill 
you look! 1 can not bear to see you!” And covering her face 
with her hands, she burst into a flood of tears. 

“1 can hardly— believe— that it is Miss Hillary,” muttered 
Elliott. “ But your father!— Mr. Hillary! What will he say if he 
sees you? Are you not ashamed of being seen talking to a wretch 
like me, just slipped out of Newgate?” 

“ Ashamed? My Henry — do not torture me! I am heart-broken 
for your sake! It is my own flesh and blood that 1 am ashamed of 
— that it could ever be so base!” 

Elliott suddenly snatched her into his arms, and folded her to his 
breast with convulsive energy. 

If the malignant eye of her father had seen them at that moment! 

She had obtained information that her father was gone to the Old 
Bailey with Lord Scamp, and soon contrived to follow them, un- 
noticed by the domestics. She could not get into the court, as the 
gallery w r as already filled; and had been lingering about the door 
lor. upward of four hours, making eager inquiries from those who 
left the court, as to the name of the prisoner who was being tried. 
She vehemently urged him to accompany her direct to Bullion 
House, confront her father, and demand reparation for the wrongs 
he had inflicted. “ 1 will stand beside you — 1 will never leave you 
— let him turn us both out of his house together!” continued the 
excited girl. “ 1 begin to loathe it — to feel indifferent about every- 
thing it contains — except my poor, unoffending, dying mother! 
Come, come, Henry, and play the man!” But Elliott’s good sense 
led him to expostulate with her, and he did so successfully, repre- 
senting to her the useless peril attending such a proceeding. He 
forced her into the coach that was waiting for her— refused the 
purse she had tried nearly fifty times to thrust into his hand — 
promised to make a point of writing to her the next day in such a 


56 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


manner as should be sure of reaching her, and after mutually affec- 
tionate adieus, he ordered the coachman to drive off as quickly as 
possible toward Highbury- She found Bullion House in a tumult 
on account of her absence. 

“ So your intended victim has escaped!” exclaimed Miss Hillary, 
suddenly presenting hersell before her father, whom Lord Scamp 
had just left. 

“ Ah, Polly — my own Poll— and is it you, indeed?” said her fa- 
ther, evidently the worse of wine* approaching her unsteadily. 
“ Come, kiss me, love!— where — where have you been, you little 
puss— puss — puss—” 

*“ To Newgate, sir!” replied his daughter, in a quick stern tone, 
and retreated a step or two from her advancing father. 

“ N — n — ewgate! New— new— gate!” he echoed, as if the word 
had suddenly sobered him. “Well — Mary — and— what of that!” 
he added, drawing his breath heavily. 

“To think that your blood flows in these veins of mine!” con- 
tinued Miss Hillary, with extraordinary energy, extending her arms 
toward him. “ 1 call you father — and yet ” — she shuddered — “ you 
are a guilty man — you have laid a snare for the innocent — tremble, 
sir! tremble! Do you love your daughter? 1 tell you, father, that 
if your desiga had succeeded, she would have lain dead in your 
house within an hour after it was told her! Oh, what— what am 1 
saying? — where have 1 been?” She pressed her hand to her fore- 
head; her high excitement had passed away. Her father had re- 
covered from the shock occasioned by her abrupt reappearance. He 
walked to the door, and shut it. 

“ Sit down, Mary,” said he, sternly, pointing to the sofa. She 
obeyed him in silence. 

“ Now, girl, tell me— are you drunk or sober?— where have you 
been?— what have you been doing?” he inquired, with a furious 
air. She hid her face in her hands, and wept. 

“ You are driving me mad, father!” she murmured.- 

“Come, come! What! — you’re playing the coward now, miss! 
Where is all your bold spirit gone? What! can’t you bully me 
any more? Snivel on then, and beg my forgiveness! What do you 
mean, miss,” said he, extending toward her his clinched fist, “ by 
talking about this fellow Elliott being — my victim? Eh? Tell 
me, you audacious hussy) you ungrateful vixen! what d’ye mean? — 

say, what the d 1 has come to you?” She made no answer, but 

continued with her lace concealed in her hands. “ Oh — I’m up to 
all this! 1 see what you’re after! 1 know r you, young dare-devil! 


THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 


57 

You think you can bully me into letting- you marry this brute — this 
beggar — this swindler! Ah-ha! you don’t know me though! By 

, but 1 believe you and he are in league to take mydife! ’ He 

paused, gasping with rage. His daughter remained silent. “ What 
has turned you so against me?” he continued, in the same violent 
tone and manner. “ Haven’t 1 been a kind father to you all my — ” 

“ Oh 'yes, yes, yes! dear father, 1 know you have!” sobbed Miss 
Hillary, rising and throwing herself at his feet. 

“ Then why are you behaving in this strange way to me?” he 
inquired, somewhat softening his tone. ‘‘Mary, isn’t your poor 
mother upstairs dying? and if 1 lose her and you too, what’s to 
become of me?” Miss Hillary wept bitterly. “You’d better kill 
your old father outright at once than kill him in this slow way! or 
send him to a madhouse, as you surely will! Come, Molly — my 
own little Molly — promise me to think no more of this wretched 
fellow! Depend on’t he’ll be revenged on me yet and do me an in- 
jury if he can! Surely the devil himself sent the man across our 
family peace! 1 don’t want you to marry Lord Scamp since you 
don’t like him — not J! It’s true, I have longed this many a year 
to marry you to some nobleman— to see you great and happy — but 
— if you. can’t fancy my Lord Scamp, why — I give him up. And if 
1 give him up, won’t you meet me half way, and make us all happy 
again by giving up this fellow so unworthy of you? He comes 
from a d d bad stock, believe me! Remember— his father gam- 

bled, and cut his throat,” added Hillary, in a low tone, instinctive- 
ly trembling as he recollected the effect produced upon Elliott by 
his utterance of these words on a former occasion. “ Only think, 
Molly! My daughter, with a vast fortune— scraped together during 
a long life by her father’s hard labor — Molly — the only thing her 
father loves, excepting always your poor mother— to fling herself 
into the arms of a common thief — a jail-bird— a felon — a fellow on 
his way to the gallows!” 

“ Father!” said Miss Hillary, solemnly, suddenly looking up into 
her father’s face, “ you know that this is false! You know that he 
is acquitted— that he is innocent — you knew it from the first— that 
the charge was false!” 

Mr. Hillary, who had imagined he was succeeding in changing 
his daughter’s determination, was immeasurably disappointed and 
shocked at this evidence of his failure. He bit his lips violently and 
looked at her fiercely, his countenance darkening upon her sensibly. 
Scarce suppressing a horrible execration,— turning a deaf ear to all 
her passionate entreaties on behalf of Elliott— he rose, forcibly de- 


58 


THE MERCHANT S CLERK 


tached her arms, which were clinging to his knees, and rang the 
bell. 

“ Send Miss Hillary’s maid here,”’ said he, hoarsely. The wom- 
an, with a frightened air, soon made her appearance. 

“ Attend Miss Hillary to her room immediately,” said he, sternly, 
and his disconsolate daughter was led out of his presence to spend 
a night of sleepless agony. 

“ On bed 

Delirious flung, sleep from her pillow flies; 

All night she tosses, nor the balmy power 
In any posture finds; till-the gray morn 
Lifts her pale luster on the paler wretch 
Exanimate by love; and then, perhaps, 

Exhausted nature sinks awhile to rest. 

Still interrupted by distracted dreams, 

That o’er the sick imagination rise, 

And in black colors paint the mimic scene!” 

Many more such scenes as the one above described followed be- 
tween Mr. Hillary and his daughter. He never left her from the 
moment he entered till he quitted his house on his return to the city. 
Threats, entreaties, promises— magnificent promises— all the artillery 
of persuasion or coercion that he knew how to use, he brought to 
bear upon liis wearied and harassed daughter, but iu vain. He 
suddenly took her with him into Scotland; and after spending there 
a wretched week or two, returned more dispirited than he had left. 
He hurried her to every place of amusement he could think of. 
JN'owTie would give party after party, forgetful of his poor wife’s 
situation; then let a w r eek or longer elapse iD dull and morose seclu- 
sion. Once he was carried by his passion to such a pitch of frenzy, 
that he struck her on the side of her head, and severely; nor mani- 
fested any signs of remorse when he beheld her staggering under the 
blow. But why stay to particularize these painful scenes? Was 
this the way to put an end to the obstinate infatuation of his 
daughter? No, but to increase and strengthen it; to add fuel to the 
fire. Her womanly pride, her sense of justice, came — powerful 
auxiliaries— to support her love of the injured Elliott. She bore his 
ill treatment at length with a kind of apathy. She had long lost all 
respect for her father, conscious as she was that he had acted most 
atrociously toward Elliott; and presently, after “ some natural 
tears ” for her poor mother, she became wearied of the monotonous 
misery she endured at Bullion House, and ready to fly from it. 

Passing over an interval of a month or two, during which she 
continued to keep up some correspondence with Elliott, who never 


THE MERCHANT S CLERK. 


59 


told her the extreme misery, the absolute want he was suffering, 
since her father refused to give him a character such as would pro- 
cure his admission to another situation, and he was therefore re- 
duced to the most precarious means possible of procuring a liveli- 
hood. Miss Hillary overhearing her father make arrangements for 
taking her on a long visit to the Continent — where he might, for all 
she knew, leave her to end her days in some con vent— fled that night 
in desperation from Bullion House, and sought refuge in the hum- 
ble residence of an old servant of her father’s. Here she lived for a 
few days in terrified seclusion; but she might have spared her 
alarms, for her father received the news of her flight with sullen 
•apathy, merely exclaiming, “Well, as she has made her bed she 
must lie upon it.” He made no inquiries after her, nor attempted 
to induce her to return. When at length apprised of her residence, 
he did not go near the house. He had evidently given up the strug- 
gle in despair and felt indifferent to any fate that might befall his 
daughter. He heard that the bans of marriage between her and 
Elliott were published in the parish church where her new residence 
was situated, but offered no opposition whatever. lie affixed his 
signature when required to the document necessary to transfer to 
her the sum of £600— standing in her name in the funds, in sullen 
silence. 

So this ill-fated couple were married, no one attending at the 
brief and cheerless ceremony but hn early friend of Elliott’s and the 
worthy couple from whose house Mrs. Elliott had been married. 

Elliott had commenced legal proceedings against Mr. Hillary on 
account of his malicious prosecution. He was certain of success, 
and of thereby wringing from his reluctant and wicked father-in- 
law a very considerable sum of money — a little fortune, in his pres- 
ent circumstances. With a noble forbearance, however, and yield- 
ing to the entreaties of his wife, who had not lost, in her marriage, 
the feelings of a daughter toward her erring parent, he abandoned 
them; his solicitor writing, at his desire, to inform Mr. Hillary of 
the fact that his client had determined to discontinue proceedings, 
though he had had the certainty of success before him, and that for 
his wife’s sake he freely forgave Mr. Hillary. 

This letter was returned with an insolent message from Mr. Hil- 
lary, and there the affair ended. 

A few days after her marriage, Mrs. Elliott received the follow- 
ing communication from Mr. Jeffreys: 

“Madam,— Mr. Hillary has instructed me to apprise you, as 1 
now do with great pain, of his unalterable determination never again 


60 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


to recognize you as his daughter, or receive any communication, of 
any description, lrom either your husband or yourself, addressed 
either to Mr. or Mrs. Hillary; whom your undutiful and ungrateful 
conduct, he says, has separated from you forever. 

“ He will allow to be forwarded to any place you may direct 
whatever articles belonging to you may yet remain at Bullion House, 
on .your sending a list Of them to my office. 

" Spare me the pain of a personal interview on the matter; and 
believe me when 1 unfeignedly lament being the medium of com- 
municating such intelligence. 

“ 1 am, madam, 

• “ Your humble servant, 

“ Jonathan Jeffreys.” 

With a trembling hand, assisted by her husband, she set down a 
few articles— books, dress, one or two jewels, and her little dog 
Cato. Him, however, Mr. Hillary had caused to be destroyed the 
day after he discovered her flight. The other articles were sent to 
her immediately; and with a bitter fit of weeping did she receive 
them, and read the fate of her nrmrry little favorite, who had frisked 
about her to the last with sportive affection, when almost everybody 
else scowled at and forsook her. Thus closed forever, as she too 
surely felt, all connection and communication with her father and 
mother. 

Elliott regarded his noble-spirited wife, and well he might, with 
a fondness bordering on idolatry. The vast sacrifice she had made 
for him overpowered him whenever* he adverted to it, and inspired 
him, not only with the most tender and enthusiastic affection and 
gratitude, but with the most eager ambition to secure her, by his 
own efforts, at least a comfortable home. He engaged a small but 
respectable lodging in the borough, to which they removed the day 
after their marriage; and after making desperate exertions, he had 
the gratification of obtaining a situation as clerk in a respectable 
mercantile house in the city, and which he had obtained through 
the friendly but secret services of one of the members of the firm he 
had last served. His superior qualifications secured him a salary of 
£90 a-year, with the promise of its increase if he continued to give 
satisfaction. Thus creditably settled, the troubled couple began to 
breathe a little more freely; and in the course of a twelvemonth, 
Mrs. Elliott’s poignant grief first declined into melancholy, which 
was at length mitigated into a pensive if not cheerful resignation. 
She moved in her little circumscribed sphere as if she had never 
occupied one of splendor and affluence. How happily passed the 
hours they spent together in the evening after he had quitted the 
scene of his daily labors, he reading or playing op his flute, whici; 


THE MERCHANTS CLERK. 


61 


he did very beautifully, and she busily employed with her needle! 
How they loved their neat little parlor, as they sometimes involun- 
tarily compared it; she, with the spacious and splendid apartments 
which had witnessed so much of her suffering at Bullion House — 
he, with the dreadful cells of Newgate! And their Sundays! What 
sweet and calm repose the3 7 brought! How she loved to walk with 
him after church hours in the fresh and breezy places — the parks; 
though a pang occasionally shot through her heart when she ob- 
served her father’s carriage, he the solitary occupant, rolling leisure- 
ly past them! The carriage in which she and her little Cato had so 
often driven! But thoughts such as these seldom intruded; and 
when they did, only drove her closer to her husband— a pearl to her, 
indeed — if it may not be irreverently spoken — of great price — a 
price she never once regretted to have paid. 

Ye fond, unfortunate souls! what days of darkness were in store 
for you ! 

About eighteen months after iheir marriage, Mrs. Elliott, after a 
lingering and dangerous accouchement, gave birth to a son, the lit- 
tle creature 1 had seen. How they consulted together about the 
means of apprising Mr. Hillary of the birth of his grandson, and 
faintly suggested to each other the possibility of its melting the stern 
stubborn resolution he had formed concerning them! He heard of 
it, however, manifesting about as much emotion* as he would on 
being told by his housekeeper of the kittening of his kitchen cat! 
The long fond letter she had made such an effort to write to him, 
and which poor Elliott had trudged all the way to Highbury to de- 
liver, with trembling hand and beating heart, to the porter of Bul- 
lion House, was returned to them the next morning by the two- 
penny post, unopened ! What delicious agony was it to them to 
look at, to hug to their bosoms, the little creature that had no 
friend, no relative on earth but them! How often did his little blue 
eye open surptisedly upon her as her scorching tear dropped upon 
his tiny face! 

She had just weaned her child, and was still suffering from the 
effects of nursing, when there happened the first misfortune that 
had befallen them since their marriage. Mr. Elliott was one night 
behind his usual hour of returning from the city, and his anxious 
wife’s suspense was terminated by the appearance of a hackney 
coach, from which there stepped out a strange gentleman, who in- 
stantly knocked at the door, and returned to assist another gentle- 
man in lifting out the apparently inanimate figure of her husband. 
J'ale as depth, she rushed down stairs, her child in her arms, and 


62 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


was saved from fainting only by hearing her husband’s voice, in a 
low tone, assuring her that he was “ not much hurt ” — that he had 
had “a slight accident.” The fact was, that in attempting most 
imprudently to shoot across the street between two approaching 
vehicles, he was knocked down by the pole of one of them, a post 
chaise; and when down, before the postboy could stop, one of the 
horses had kicked the prostrate passenger upon his right side. The 
two humane gentlemen who had accompanied him home, did all in 
their power to assuage the terrors of Mrs. Elliott. One of them ran 
for the medical man who fortunately lived close at hand; and he 
pronounced the case to be, though a serious one, and requiring 
great care, not attended with dangerous symptoms, at least, at 
present. 

His patient never quitted his bed for three months; at the end of 
which period, his employers sent a very kind message, regretting 
the accident that had happened, and still more, that they felt com- 
pelled to till up his situation in their house, as he had been now so 
long absent, and was likely to continue absent for a much longer 
time: and they at the same time paid him all the salary that was 
due, in respect of the period during which he had been absent, and 
a quarter’s salary beyond it. Poor Elliott was thrown by this intel- 
ligence into a state of deep despondency, which was increased by 
his surgeon’s continuing to use the the language of caution, and as- 
suring him (disheartening words!) that he must not think of engag- 
ing in active business for some time yet to come. It was after a 
sleepless -night that he and his wife stepped into a hackney-coach 
ana drove to the bank to sell out £50 of their precious store, in or- 
der to liquidate some of the heavy expenses attendant on his long ill- 
ness. Alas! what prospect was. there either of replacing what they 
now took, or of preserving the remainder from similar diminution! 
It was now that this admirable wife acted indeed the part of a guard- 
ian angel: soothing by her fon+I attentions his querulous and 
alarmed spirit; and, that she might do so, struggling hourly to con- 
ceal her own grievous apprehensions, her own despondency. As it 
may be supposed, it had now become necessary to practice the 
closest economy in order to keep themselves out of debt, and to 
avoid the necessity of constantly drawing upon .the very moderate 
sum which yet stood in his name in the funds. How often, never- 
theless, did the fond creature risk a chiding, and a severe one, from 
her husband, by secretly procuring for him some of the little delica- 
cies recommended by their medical attendant, and in which no en- 
treaties could ever prevail upon her to share! 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


63 


Some time after tiiis, her husband recovered sufficiently to be able 
to walk out; but being peremptorily prohibited from engaging for 
some lime to come in his old situation, or any one requiring similar 
efforts, he put an advertisement in the newspapers, offering to ar- 
range the most involved merchant’s accounts, etc., “ with accuracy 
and expedition,” at his own residence, and on such very moderate 
terms as soon brought him several offers ol employment. He ad- 
dressed himself with a natural but most imprudent eagerness to the 
troublesome and even exhausting task he had undertaken; and the 
consequence was, that he purchased the opportunity of a month’s 
labor by a twelvemonth’s emancipation from all labor !. A dreadful 
blow this was, and borne by neither of them with their former 
equanimity. Mrs. Elliott renewed her hopeless attempt to soften 
the obduracy of her father’s heart. She waited for him in the street 
at the hours of his quitting and returning to the city, and attempted 
to speak to him, but he hurried from her as from a common street- 
beggar. She wrote letter after letter, carrying some herself, and 
sending others by the post, by which latter medium all were invari- 
ably returned to her! She began to think with horror on her father’s 
inexorable disposition; and her prayers to Heaven for its interto 
ence on her behalf, or at least the faith that inspired them, beq^ 1_N \ 
fainter and fainter. 

Mr. Hillary’s temper had become ten times worse than ever since 
his daughter’s departure, owing to that as well as several other 
causes. Several of his speculations in business proved to be very 
unfortunate, and to entail harassing oonsequences; which kept him 
constantly in a state of feverish irritabilitv. Poor Mrs. Hillary con- 
tinued still a hopeless paralytic, deprived of the powers both of 
speech and motion; all chance, therefore, of her precious interces- 
sion was forever at an end. In vain did Mrs. Elliott strive to in- 
terest several of her relatives in her behalf : ihey professsed too great 
a dread of Mr. Hillary to attempt interfering in such a delicate and 
dangerous matter; and really had a very obvious interest in continu- 
ing, if not increasing, the grievous and unnatural estrangement 
existing between him and his daughter. There was one of them, a 
Miss Gubbley, a maiden aunt or cousin of Mrs. Elliott, that had 
wormed herself completely into Mr. Hillary’s confidence, and hav- 
ing been once a kind of housekeeper in the establishment, now 
reigned supreme at Bullion Lodge: an artful, selfish, vulgar person, 
an object to Mrs. Elliott of mingled terror and disgust, this was the 
being that, 

“ Toadlike, sat squatting at the ear 11 


64 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


ot her father, probably daily suggesting every hateful consideration 
that could tend to widen the breach already existing between him 
and his daughter. This creature, too, had poor Mrs. Elliott besieged 
with passionate and humiliating entreaties, till they were suddenly 
and finally checked by a display of such intolerable insolence and 
heartlessness as determined Mrs. Elliott, come what would, to make 
no further efforts in that quarter. She returned home, on the occa- 
sion just alluded to, worn out in body and mind. A copious flood 
of tears accompanjdng her narration to her husband of what had 
happened, relieved her excitement; she took her child into her arms 
and his playful little fingers unconsciously touching the deep re- 
sponsive chords of a mother’s heart, she forgot in the ecstasy of 
the moment, as she folded him to her bosom, all that had occurred 
to make her unhappy and add to the gloom of their darkening pros- 
pects. Closer and closer now became their retrenchments, cutting 
off every source of expenditure that was not absolutely indispensa- 
ble. None occasioned them, she told me, a greater pang than giving 

up their little pew in Church, and betaking themselves Sunday 

after Sunday to the humbler and more appropriate sittings provided 
rn the aisle. But was this their communion, their compact with 
poverty, unfavorable to devotion? No. The serpent pride was 
crushed, and dared not lift his bruised head to disturb or alarm ! 
God then drew near to the deserted couple, “ weary and heavy 
laden,” and “ cast out ” by their earthly father! Yes, there she ex- 
perienced a calm, a resignation, a reality in the services and duties 
of religion, which she had npver known when sitting amid the trap- 
pings and ostentation of wealth in the gorgeous pew of her father! 

They were obliged to seek a cheaper lodging — moderate as was 
the rent required for those they had so long occupied — where they 
might practice a severer economy than they chose to exhibit in the 
presence of those who had known them when such sacrifices were 
not necessary, and which also had the advantage of being in the 
neighborhood of a person who had promised Elliott occasional em- 
ployment as a collector of rents, etc., as well as the balancing of 
his books every month. Long before his health warranted did he 
undertake these severe labors, driven to desperation by a heavy and 
not over-reasonable bill delivered him by Ids medical attendant, and 
of which he pressed for the payment. With an aching heart poor 
Elliott, sold out sufficient to discharge it, and resolved at all hazards 
to recommence his labors; for there was left only £70 or £80 in the 
bank, and he shuddered when he thought of it. They had quitted 
this their second lodging for that in which I found them about three 


THE MERCHANT’S. CLERIC. 


65 


months betore her first visit to me, in order to be near another indi- 
vidual, himself an accountant, who had promised to employ Elliott 
frequently as a kind of deputy oi fag. His were the books piled 
betore poor Elliott when first I saw him! Thus had he been en- 
gaged, to the great injury of his health, for many weeks, his own 
mental energy and determination flattering him with a delusive con- 
fidence in his physical vigor! 

Poor Mrs. Elliott also had contrived, being not unacquainted with 
ornamental needle- work, to obtain some employment of that descrip- 
tion. Heavy was her heart as she sat toiling beside her husband, 
who was busily engaged in such a manner as would not admit of 
their conversing together, when her - thoughts wandered over the 
scenes of their past history, and anticipated their gloomy prospects. 
Was she now paying the fearful penalty of disobedience? But 
where was the sin she had committed in forming an honest and ar- 
dent attachment to one who she was satisfied was every way her 
equal save in wealth? How could her father have a right to dictate 
to her heart who should be an object of her affections? To dispose 
of it as of an article of merchandise? Had he any right thus to con- 
sign her to perpetual misery? To unite her to a titled scoundr 
merely to gratify his weak pride and ambition? Had she not ariguo 
to resist such an attempt? The same Scripture that has said, “ Chil - 
dren, obey your parents,” has also said, “ Fathers, provoke not your 
children to wrath.” But had she not been too precipitate, or unduly 
obstinate in adhering to the man her father abhorred? Ought any- 
thing to have caused her to fly from her suffering mother! Oh, what 
might have been her sufferings! But surely nothing could justify 
or extenuate the unrelenting spirit which actuated her father! And 
that father she knew to have acted basely, to have played the part 
of a devil toward the man whom he hated; perhaps, nay probably, 
lie was meditating some equally desperate scheme concerning her- 
self. She silently appealed to God from amid this conflict of her 
thoughts and feelings, and implored his forgiveness of her rash 
conduct. Her agonies were heightened by the consciousness that 
there existed reasons for self-condemnation: but she thought of, she 
looked at, her husband, and her heart told her that she should act 
similarly were the past again to happen. 

So, then, here were this virtuous unhappy couple— he declining in 
health just when that health was most precious; she, too, worn out 
with labor and anxiety, and likely, alas! to bring another heir to 
wretchedness into the world, for she was considerably advanced in 
pregnancy; both becoming less capable of the labor which was be- 
3 


66 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 

coming daily more essential, with scarcely £40 td fall back upon in 
the most desperate emergency. Such was the dreadful situation of 
Mr. and Mrs. Elliott soon after the period of my first introduction 
to them. It was after listening to one of the most interesting and 
melancholy narratives that the annals of human suffering could 
supply, that 1 secretly resolved to take upon myself the responsibil- 
ity of appealing to Mr. Hillary in their behalf, hoping that for the 
honor of humanity my efforts would not be entirely unavailing. 

He had quitted Bullion House within a twelvemonth after his 
daughter’s flight, and removed to a spacious and splendid mansion 

in Square, in the neighborhood of my residence; and where — 

strange coincidence! 1 was requested to attend Mrs. Hillary, who 
at length seemed approaching the close of her long-protracted 
sufferings. Mr. Hillary had become quite an altered man since the 
defection of his daughter. Lord Scamp had introduced him freely 
into the society of persons of rank and station, who welcomed into 
tlieir circles the possessor of so splendid a fortune; and he found, 
in the incessant excitement and amusement of fashionable society, 
a refuge from reflection, from the “compunctious visitings >t re- 

"»rse ” which made his solitude dreadful and insupportable. 1 
* » nd him just such a man as 1 have already had occasion to de- 
scribe him; a vain, vulgar, selfish, testy, overbearing old man; one 
A the most difficult and dangerous persons on earth to deal with in 
such a negotiation as that I had so rashly, but Heaven knows with 
the best intentions, undertaken. 

“ Well, Mr. Hillary,” said I, entering the drawing-room, where 
he w T as standing alone, with his hands in his pockets, at the window 
watching some disturbance in the square, “ I am afraid I can’t bring 
you any better news about Mrs. Hillary. She weakens hourly!” 

“ Ah, poor creature, 1 see she does— indeed!” he replied, sighing, 
quitting the window, and offering me one of the many beautiful 
chairs that stood in the splendid apartment. “ Well, she has been 
a good wife to me, I must say— a very good wife, and I’ve always 
thought and said so.” Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his 
ample white waistcoat, he walked up and down the room. “ Well, 
poor souil she’s had all that money could get her, doctor, however, 
and she knows it — that's a comfort— but it ain’t money can keep 
death off, is it?” 

“ No, indeed, Mr. Hillary; but it can mitigate some of its terrors. 
"What a consolation will it be for you hereafter to leflect that Mrs. 
Hillary has had everything your noble fortune could procure for 
her!” 


THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 


67 


“ Ay, and no grudging neither! I’d do ten times what I have 
done— what’s money to me? Poo'r Poll, and she’s going! We never 
had a quarrel in our lives!” he continued, in a somewhat subdued 
tone. “ I shall miss her when she is gone. I shall indeed. I could 
find many to fill her place, if 1 had a mind, I’ll warrant me — but 1 
—1— poor Poll!” 

“ Yes,” 1 said, in answer to some general remark he bad made, 
“ we medical men do certainly see the worst side of human life. 
Pain — illness — death — are bad enough of themselves, but when pov- 
erty steps in too — ” 

“ Ay, 1 dare say. Bad enough as you say — bad enough!” 

“ 1 have this very day seen a mournful instance of accumulated 
human misery; poverty, approaching starvation, and illness, distress 
of mind. Ah! Mr. Hillary, what a scene 1 witnessed yesterday!” 1 
continued, with emotion; “ a man who is-well born, who has seen 
better — ” 

‘‘Better days — ah, exactly. Double- refined misery, as they 
would say in the city. By the way, what a valuable charity that is! 
I’m a subsoriber to it — for the < relief of decayed tradesmen! *One 
feels such a pleasure in it! I dare say now— I do believe — let me see 
— £200 would not cover what I get i id of one way or another in 
this kind of way every year. By the way, doctor, I’ll ring for tea 
— you’Jl take a cup?” I nodded; and in a few minutes a splendid 
tea service made its appearance. 

” Do you know, doctor, I’ve some notion of being remembered 
after I’m gone, and it has often struck me that if l were to leave 
what I have to build a hospital or something of that sort in this part 
ot the town, it wouldn’t be amiss.” 

“A noble ambition, sir, indeed. But, as-I was observing, the 
poor people 1 saw yesterday — such misery! such fortitude!” 

“Ah, yes! Proper sort of people, just the right sort to put into 
— ahem! Hillary’s Hospital. It don’t sound badly, does it?” 

“ Excellently well. But the fact is ”— 1 observed that he was 
becoming rather fidgety, but 1 was resolved not to be beaten from 
my point— “ I’m going, in short, Mr. Hillary, to take a liberty 
which nothing could warrant but—” 

“ You’re going to beg, doctor, now ain’t you?” he interrupted 
briskly; “ but fho fact is, my maxim has long been never to give a 
. hrthing in oharity that anyone shall know of but tw T o people: 1 
and thepeopb I give to. That’s my notion of true charity; and 
besides, it saves ©no a vast deal of trouble. But if you really think 
—if it really is a deserving case— why— ahem !— 1 might perhaps— 


68 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


Dr. — is so well known for his charitable turn — now ain’t this the 
way you begin upon all your great patients?” he continued, with 
au air of supreme complacency. 1 bowed and smiled, humoring his 
vanity. “ Well, in such a case — hem! heml I might once in a way, 
break in upon my rule,” and he transferred his left hand from his 
waistcoat to his breeches pocket, “ so there’s a guinea for you. 
But don’t on any account name it to any one. Don’t, doctor, 1 
don’t want to be talked about; and we people that are known do 
get so many — ” 

‘‘But, Mr. Hillary, surely 1 may tell my poor friends to whom 
your charity is destined the name of the generous—” 

‘‘Oh, ay! Do as you please for the matter of that. Who are 
they? What are they? Where do they live? I’m a governor 
of 1 trembled. 

“ They live at present in Street; but 1 doubt, poor things, 

whether they can stop there much longer, for their landlady is be- 
coming very clamorous — ” 

“ Oh, the old story! the old story! Landlords are generally, es- 
pecially the smaller sort, such tyrants, ain t they?” 

“ Yes, too frequently such isiheca^e! But I was going to tell you 
of these poor people. They ka\e not been married many years, and 
they married very unfortunately.” Mr. Hillary, who bad tor some 
time been sitting down on the sofa, here rose and walked rather 
more quickly than he had been walking before. “ Contrary to the 
wishes of their family, who have forsaken them, and don’t know 
wliat their sufferings now are — how virtuous— how r patient! And 
they have got a child too, that will soon, 1 fear, be crying for the 
bread it may not get.” Mr. Hillary was evidently becoming dis- 
turbed. 1 saw that a little of the color had fled from about his upper 
lip, but he said nothing, nor did he seem disposed to interrupt me. 
“I’m sure, by the way,” 1 continued, as calmly as 1 could, “ that - 
if 1 could but prevail upon their family to see them, before it is loo 
late, that explanations might—” 

“ What’s the name of your friends, sir?” said Mr. Hillary, sud- 
denly stopping, and standing opposite to me, with his arms almost 
akimbo and his eyes looking keenly into mine. 

“ Elliott, sir.” 

“ 1—1 thought as much, sirl" he replied, dashing the perspiration 
from his forehead; “I knew what you were driving at! D — nit, 
sir — 1 see it all! l r ou came here to insult me— you did„ sirl” His 
agitation increased. 

“ Forgive me, Mr. Hillary; I assure you—” 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


69 


“No, sir! I won’t hear you, sir! I’ve heard enough, sir! Too 
much, sir! You’ve said enough, sir, to show me what sort o.f a man 
you are, sir! D— n it, sir— it’s too bad!” 

“ You mistake me, Mr. Hillary,” s^id 1, calmly. 

“No, I don’t, sir, but you’ve cursedly mistaken me, sir. It you 
know these people, and choose to take up their — to — to — patronize, 
do, sir, d— n it! it you like, and haven’t anything better to do!’’ 

“ Forgive me, sir, if 1 have hurt your feelings!” 

“ Hurt my feelings, sir? What d’ye mean, sir? Every man hurts 
my feelings that insults me, sir; and you have insulted me, sir!” 

“ How. sir!” I inquired, sternly, in my turn. “ Oblige me, sir, 
by explaining these extraordinary expressions.” 

“ You know well enough! 1 see through it. But if you — really, 
sir — you’ve got a guinea of mine, sir, in your pocket. Consider it 
your fee for this visit; the last I’ll trouble you to pay, sir!” he 
stuttered, almost, unintelligible with fury. 

I threw his guinea upon the floor, as it its touch were pollution. 
“ Farewell, Mr. Hillary,” said 1, deliberately, drawing on my gloves. 
“ May your deathbed be as calm and happy as that I have this, day 
attended up stairs for the last time.” 

He looked at me earnestly, as it staggered by the reflections I had 
suggested, and turned very pale. 1 bowed haughtily, and retired. 
As 1 drove home, my heated fancy struck out a Scheme for shaming 
or terrifying the old monster 1 had quitted into something like pity 
or repentance, by attacking and exposing him in some newspaper; 
but by the next morning 1 perceived the many objections there 
were to such a course. 1 need hardly say that 1 did not communi- 
cate to the Elliotts the fact of my attempted intercession with Mr. 
Hillary. 

It was grievous to see the desperate but unavailing struggle made 
by both of them to retrieve their circumstances and provide against 
the expensive and trying time that was approaching. He was slav- 
ing at his account books from morning to midnight, scarce allowing 
himself a few minutes for his meals; and she had become a mere fag 
to a fashionable milliner, undertaking all such work as could be 
done at her own residence, often sitting up half the night, and yet 
earning the merest trifle. Then she had also to look after her hus- 
band and child, for they could not afford to keep a regular attend- 
ant. Several articles of her husband’s dress and her own and almost 
all that belonged to the child, she often washed at night with her 
own hands! 

As if these unfortunate people were not sufficiently afflicted al- 


70 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 

ready— as if any additional ingredient in their cup of sorrow were 
requisite — symptoms, of a more grievous calamity than had yet be- 
fallen poor Elliott began (o exhibit themselves in him. His severe 
and incessant application, by day and nislit, coupled wtih the per- 
petual agitation and excitement of his nervous system, began to tell 
upon his eyesight. I found him, on one of my morning visits, 
laboring under great excitement; and on questioning him, 1 feared 
he had but too good reason for his alarm, as he described, with fear- 
ful distinctness, certain sensations and appearances which infallibly 
betokened, in my opinion, after examining his eyes, the presence of 
incipient amaurosis in both eyes. He spoke of deep-seated pains in 
the orbits-— perpetual sparks and flashes of light— peculiar haloes 
seen around the candle — dimness of sight — and several other symp- 
toms, which 1 found, on inquiry had been for some time in exist- 
ence, but he had never thought of noticing them till they forced 
themselves upon his startled attention. 

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands, and looking 
upward, “spare my sight! Oh, spare my sight— or what will be- 
come of me? Beggary seems to be my lot — but blindness to be 
added!” He paused, and looked the image of despair. 

“ Undoubtedly, I should deceive you, Mr. Elliott, ’ said 1, after 
making several further inquiries, “ if I were to say that there was 
no danger in your case. Unfortunately, there does exist ground for 
apprehending that, unless you abstain, and in a great measure, from 
so severely taxing your eyesight as you have of late, you will run 
the risk of permanently injuring it.” 

“ Oh, doctor! it is esay to talk!” he exclaimed, with involuntary 
bitterness, “ of my ceasing to use and try my sight; but how am 1 
to do it? How am I to live? Tell me that! Will money drop from 
the skies ir to my lap, or bread into the mouths of my poor wife and 
child? What is to become of us? Merciful God j and just at this 
time, too! My wife pregnant!” — I thanked God she was not 
present—” our last penny almost slipping from our hands— and I, 
who should be the stay and support of my family, becoming blind! 
Oh, God — oh, God, wh;,> frightful crimes have 1 committed to be 
punished thus? Would 1 had been transported or hanged,” he 
added, suddenly, “ when the old ruffian threw me into Newgate! 
But!” -he turned ghastly pale — “ it 1- were to die now, what good 
could it do?” At that moment the slow heavy wearied step of his 
wife was heard upon the stairs, and her entrance put an end to her 
husband’s exclamations. 1 entreated him to intermit, at least for 
a time, his attentions to business, and prescribed some active rem 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


n 


edies, and be promised to obey my instructions. Mrs. Elliott sat 
beside me with a sad exhausted air, which touched me almost to 
tears. What a situation— what a prospect was hers! How was she 
to prepare tor her coming confinement? How procure Ihe most 
ordinary comforts— the necessary attendance? Deprived as her 
husband and child must be tor a time of her affectionate and vigi- 
lant attentions, what was to become of them? Who supply her 
place? Her countenance too plainly showed that all these dreadful 
topics constantly agitated her mind! 

A day or two after this interview 1 brought them the intelligence 
1 had seen in the newspapers of Mrs. Hillary’s death, which I com- 
municated to them very carefully, fearful of the effect it might pro- 
duce upon Mrs. Elliott, in her critical situation. She wept bitterly; 
but the event had been too long expected by her to occasion any 
violent exhibition of grief. As ihey lay awake that night in melan- 
choly converse, it suddenly occurred to Mrs. Elliott that the event 
which had just happened might afford them a last chance of regain- 
ing her father’s affections, and they determined to seize the oppor- 
tunity of appealing to his feelings when they were softened by his 
recent bereavement. The next morning the wretched couple set out 

on their dreary pilgrimage to Square— it being agreed that he 

should accompany her to within a door or two of her father’s house, 
and there await the issue of her visit. With slow and trembling 
steps, having relinquished his arm, she approached the dreaded 
house, whose large windows were closed from the top to the bot- 
tom. The sight of them overcame her; and she paused for a mo° 
ment, holding by the area railings. 

What dark and bitter thoughts and recollections crowded in a few 
seconds through her mind! Here, in this great mansion, was her 
living— her tyrannical — her mortally offended father; here lay the 
remains of her poor good mother— whom she had fled from— whose 
last thoughts might perhaps have been about her persecuted 
daughter: — and that daughter was now trembling like a guilty thing 
before the frowning portals of her widowed, and, it might be, in- 
exorable father! She felt very faint, and beckoning hastily to her 
husband, he stepped forward to support her. and led her from the 
door. After slowly walking round the square she returned, as be- 
fore, to the gloomy mansion of her father, ascended the steps, and 
with a shaking hand pulled the bell. 

“ What do you want, young woman?” inquired a servant from 
the area. 

“ 1 wish to see Joseph— is he at home?” she replied, in so faint a 


72 


THE MERCHANTS CLERK, 


voice that the only word audible in the area was that of Joseph, the 
porter, who had entered into her father’s service in that capacity 
t wo or three years before her marriage. In a few minutes Joseph 
made his appearance at the hall door, which he softly opened. 

“ Joseph! — Joseph! I’m very ill, ’’she murmured, leaning against 
the door post— “ let me sit in your chair for a moment.” 

“ Lord have mercy on me— my young mistress!” exclaimed 
Joseph, casting a hurried look behind him, as it terrified at being 
seen in conversation with her — and then hastily stepping forward 
he caugnt her in his arms, for she had fainted. He placed her in 
his great covered chair, and called one of the female servants, who 
brought up with her, at his request, a glass of water — taking the 
stranger to be some relative or friend of the porter’s. He forced a 
little into her mouth, the maid loosed her bonnet string, and after a 
few minutes she uttered a deep sigh, and her consciousness re- 
turned. 

“Don’t hurry yourself, miss— ma’am 1 mean,” stammered the 
porter, in a low tone; “you can stay here a little—] don’t think 
any one’s stirring but us servants — ymu see, ma’am, though 1 sup- 
pose you know— my poor mistress — ” She shook her head and 
sobbed. 

“ Yes, Joseph, I know it! Did she — did she die easily?” inquired 
Mrs. Elliott, in a faint whisper, grasping his hand. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” he answered, in a low tone; “poor lady, she’d 
been so long ailing, that no doubt death wasn’t anything particular 
to her, like, and so slie went out at last Jike the snuff of a candle, 
as one might say; poor old soul! we’d none of us, not my master 
even, heard the sound of her voice for months, not to say^ years 
even ! ’ ’ 

“ And my — my father, how does he—” 

“ Why he takes on about it, ma’am, certainly; but, you see, he’s 
been so long expecting of it!” 

“ Do you think, Joseph,” said Mrs. Elliott, hardly able to make 
herself heard,' “ that— that my father would be very — very angry, 
if he knew 1 was here — would he — see me?” 

“Lord, ma’am!” exclaimed the porter, alarm overspreading his 
features; “it’s not possible! You can’t think how stern he is! 
You should have heard what orders he gave us all about keeping 
you out of the house! 1 know ’tis a dreadful hard case, ma’am,” 
he continued, wiping a tear from his eye, “ and many and many’s 
the time we’ve all cried in the kitchen about— hush!” he stopped, 
and looked toward the stairs apprehensively; “ never mind, ma’am, 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK, 


73 

it’s nobody! But won’t you come down and sit in the house- 
keeper’s room! I’m sure the good old soul win rather like to see 
you, and then, you know, you can slip out of the area gate and be 
gone in no time!” 

No, Joseph, replieu Mrs, Elliott, with as much energy as her 
weakness would admit of, ”1 will wait outside the street door if 
you think there is any danger, while you go and get this letter 
taken upstairs, and say I am waiting for an answer!” He took 
the letter, held it in his hand hesitatingly and shook his head, 

“ Oh, take it, good Joseph!” said Mrs. Elliott, with a look that 
would have softened a heart of stone; “ it is only to ask for mourn- 
ing for mv mother! 1 have. not money to purchase any!” His eyes 
filled with tears. 

“My poor dear young mistress!” he faltered; his lip quivered, 
and he paused. “ It’s nrore than my place is worth; but I’ll take 
it, nevertheless— that I will, come what will, ma’am! See it I 
don’t! You see, ma'am,” dropping his voice, and looking toward 
the staircase, “ it isn’t so much the old gentleman, alter all, neither, 
but it’s— it’s Miss Gubbley that I’m afraid of! It is she, in my 
mind, that keeps him so cruel hard against you! She has it all her 
own way, here! Y T ou should see how she orders us servants about, 
ma’am, and has her eyes into everything that’s going on; but I’ll 
go and take the letter anyhow; and don’t you go out of doors, un- 
less you hear me cry, ‘ Hem!’ on the stairs!” She promised to. at- 
tend to this hint, as did also the female servant whom he left, with 
her, and Joseph disappeared. The mention of Miss Gubbley ex- 
cited the most painful and disheartening thoughts in the mind of 
Mrs. Elliott. Possibly it was now the design of this woman to 
strike a grand blow, and force herself into the place so recently 
vacated by poor Mrs. Hillary! Mrs. Elliott’s heart beat fast, after 
she had waited for some minutes in agonizing anxiety and sus- 
pense, as she heard the footsteps of Joseph hastily descending the 
stairs. 

“ Well, Joseph,” she whispered, looking eagerly at him. 

“ 1 can’t get to see master, ma’am, though I’ve tried; have in- 
deed, ma’am! I thought it would be so! Miss Gubbley has been 
giving it me, ma’am; she says it will cost me my place to dare to 
do such an audacious thing again — and I told her you was below, 
here, ma’am, and she might see you; but she tossed her head, and 
said it was of a piece with all your other shameful behavior to your 
poor, broken-hearted father, .she did, ma’am ’’—Mrs. Elliott began 
to sob bitterly— “ and she wouldn’t on. any account whatsoever 


74 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK, 


have him shocked at such a sad time as this, and that she knows it 
would be no use your coming his voice quivered—” and she says 
as how ’’—he could hardly go on — “ you should have thought of all 
this long ago: and that only a month ago she heard master say it 
was all your own fault if you come to ruin, and as you’d made your 
. bed you must lie on it— her very words, ma’am; but she’s sent you 
a couple of guineas, ma’am, on condition that you don’t on no ac- 
count trouble master again, and — and,” he continued, his tears 
overflowing, “ I’ve been so bold as to make it three, ma’am; and I 
hope it’s no offense, ma’am, me being but a servanl,” trying to 
force something, wrapped up in paper, into the hand ot Mrs. El- 
liott, who had listened motionless and in dead silence to all he had 
been saying. 

“Joseph!” at length she exclaimed, in a very low but distinct 
and solemn tone, stretching out her hands, 5 ‘ if you don’t wish to 
see me die — help me, help me — to my knees!” And with liis as- 
sistance, and that of the female servant, she sunk gently down upon 
her knees upon the floor, where he partly, supported her. She 
slowly clasped her hands together upon her bosom, and looked up- 
ward: her eye was tearless, and an awtul expression settled upon 
her motionless features Joseph involuntarily fell upon his knees 
beside her, shaking like an aspen leaf, his eyes fixed instinctively 
upon hers, and the sobs of several of the servants, who had stolen 
silently to the top of the kitchen stairs, to gaze at thisstiange 
scene, were the only sounds that were audible. * After Paving re- 
mained in this position for several minutes, she rose from her knees 
slowly and in silence. 

“ When will my mother be buried?” 

“ Next Saturday,” whispered Joseph, “ at two o’clock.” 

“ Where?” 

“ At St. ’s, ma’am.” 

! “ Farewell, Joseph! You have been very kind,” said she, rising 

and moving slowly to the door. 

“ Won’t you let me get you a little of something warm, ma’am? 
You do look so bad, ma’am, so pale, and I’ll fetch it from down- 
stairs in half a minute.” 

“No, Joseph, 1 ana better 1 and Mr. Elliott is waiting for me at 
’the outside.” 

®‘ Poor gentleman!” sobbed Joseph, turning his head aside, that 
be might dash a tear from his eye. He strove again to force into 
her hand the paper containing the three guineas, but she refused. 

“No, Joseph, 1 am very destitute, but yet Providence Will not let 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 75 

me starve, lean not take it from you; hers 1 will not, 1 ought 
not!” 

"With this the door was opened; and with, a firmer step than she 
had entered the house, she quitted it. Her husband, who was stand- 
ing anxiously at one or two doors’ distance, rushed up to hei, and 
with tremulous and agitated tone and gestures inquired the result 
of her application, and placing his arm around her, for he felt how 
heavily she leaned against him, gently led her toward home. He 
listened with the calmness of despair to her narrative of what had 
taken place. “Then there is no hope for us there,” he muttered 
through his halt-closed lips. 

“ But there is hope, dearest, with Him who invites the weary 
and the heavy laden ; who seems to have withdrawn from us, but 
lias not forsaken us,” replied his wile, tenderly, and with unwonted 
cheerfulness in her manner. “ 1 feel — 1 know — He tells me that 
He will not suffer us to sink in the deep waters! He heard my 
prayer, Henry, and He will answer it, wisely and well! Let us 
hasten home, dearest. Our little Henry will be uneasy, and trouble 
Mrs.- .” Elliott listened to her in moody silence. His darken- 

ing features told not of the peace and resignation Heaven had shed 
into the troubled bosom of his wife, but too truly betokened the 
gloom and despair within. He suspected that his wife’s reason was 
yielding to the long-continued assaults of sorrow; and thought of 
her approaching sufferings with an involuntary shudder, and sick- 
ened as he entered the scene .of them— his wretched lodging. She 
clasped their smiling child with cheerful affection to her bosom; he 
kissed him —but coldly — absently— as it were, mechanically. Plac- 
ing upon his forehead the silk shade which my wife had sent to 
him, at my request, the day before, as well to relieve his eyes, as 
to conceal their troubled expression, he leaned against the table at 
which he took his seat, and thought with perfect horror upon their 
circumstances. 

Scarce £20 now remained of the £600 with which they were mar- 
ried; his wife’s little earnings were to be of course for a while sus- 
pended' he w r as prohibited, at the peril of blindness, from the only 
species of employment he could obtain; the last ray of hope con- 
cerning Hillary’s reconciliation was extinguished; and all this when 
their expenses were on t he eve of being doubled— or trebled. 

It was well for Mrs. Elliott that her husband had placed that silk 
shade upon his forehead ! 

During his absence the next morning at the opthalmic infirmary, 
whither, at my desire, he went twice a week to receive the advice 


% 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 

of Mr. - — the eminent oculist, I called and seized the opportunity 
of placing in Mrs. Elliott’s hands, with unspeakable satisfaction, 
the sum of £40, which my good wife had chiefly collected among her 
friends; and as Mrs* Elliott read, or rather attempted to read, for 
her eyes were filled with tears, the affectionate note written to her 
by my wife, who begged that she would send her little boy to our 
house till she should have recovered from her confinement, she 
clasped her hands together, and exclaimed — “ Has not God heard 
my prayers! Dearest doctor! Heaven will reward you! What news 
for my poor heart-broken husband when he returns home from the 
infirmary — weary and disheartened! 

“ And now, doctor, shall 1 confide to you a plan 1 have formed?"’ 
said Mrs. Elliott, looking earnestly at me. “ Don’t try to persuade 
me against putting it into practice; for my mind is made up, and 
nothing can turn me from my purpose.” 1 looked at her with sur- 
prise. “You know we have but this one room and the little closet 
— for what else is it? — where we sleep : and where must my husband 
and child be when 1 am confined? Besides, we can not, even with 
all youi noble kindness to us, afford to have proper— the most 
ordinary attendance.” She paused — 1 listened anxiously. 

"So — I’ve been thinking— could you not” — she hesitat: d, as if 
struggling with violent emotion — “ could you not get me admitted ” 
— her voice trembled — “ into— the lying-in hospital?” 1 shook my 
head, unable at the moment to find utterance. 

" It has cost me a struggle— Providqnce seems, however, to have 
led me to the thought ! 1 shall there be no expense to my husband, 
and shall have, 1 understand, excellent attendance.” 

“ My poor dear madam,” l faltered, “ you must forgive me— but 
1 can not bear to think of it.” In spite of my struggles the swell- 
ing tears at length burst from my laden eyes. She buried her face 
in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly. " My husband can hear of 
me every day, and, with God’s blessing upon us, perhaps in a 
month’s time we may both meet in better health and spirits." And 
if — if— it it would not inconvenience Mrs. — — or yourself, to let 
my little Henry ” — she could get no further, and burst again into a 
fit of passionate weeping. 1 promised her, in answer to her reiter- 
ated entreaties, that 1 would immediately take steps to insure her 
an admission into the lying-in hospital at any moment she might 
require it. 

4 ‘ But, my dear madam, your husband— Mr. Elliott— depend upon 
it, will never hear of all this; he will never permit it, 1 feel per- 
fectly certain.” 


THE MERCHANT'S, CLERK. T't 

“ Ah, doctor, I know lie would not; but he shall not know any- 
thing about my intentions till 1 am safely lodged in the— the hos- 
pital. 1 intend to leave without his knowing where 1 am gone, 
some day this week-; tor 1 feel satisfied—” She paused and trem- 
bled. “ When he returns lrom the infirmary on Friday he will find 
a letter from me, telling him all my little scheme, and may God in- 
cline him to forgive me for what 1 am doing. 1 know he loves me, 
however, too fondly to make me unhappy 1” 

The next morning my wife accompanied me to their lodging, for 
the purpose of taking home with her little Iienry. A sad scene it 
was; but Elliolt, whom his wife had easily satisfied of the prudence 
of thus disposing of the child during the period of her confinement, 
bore it manfully. lie cari ied the child down to my carriage, and 
resigned him into the hands of my wife and a servant, after many 
fond caresses, with an air of melancholy resolution;- promising to 
call daily and see him while on his visit to my house. 1 strove to 
console him under this temporary separation from his child, and to 
impress upon him the necessity of absolute quiet and repose, in 
order to give due effect to the very active treatment under which he 
had been placed for the complaint in his eyes; this I did in order 
to prepare him for the second stroke meditated' to be inflicted upon 
him on the ensuing Friday by his wife, and to reconcile him, by 
anticipation as it were, to their brief separation. When once the 
decisive step had been taken, 1 felt satisfied that he would speedily 
see the propriety of it. 

It was wonderful to see how Mrs. Elliott, during the interval be- 
tween Ibis day and the Friday appointed for her entrance into the 
lying-in hospital, sustained her spirits. Her manner increased in 
tenderness toward her husband, who evinced a corresponding energy 
of sympathy and affection toward her. His anxieties had been to a 
considerable extent allayed by the seasonable addition to his funds 
already spoken ©f; but he expressed an occasional surprise at the 
absence'ot any preparations for the event which both of them be 
lieved to be so near at hand. 

On the Friday morning, about half an hour after her husband had 
set out for the ophthalmic infirmary as usual, a hackney-coach drew 
up to the door of liis lodging, with a female atteDdant, sent by my 
directions from the lying in hospital. I also made my appearance 
within a few minutes of the arrival of the coach: and pool Mrs. 
Elliott, after having carefully arranged and disposed of the few 
articles of her own apparel which she intended to leave behind her, 
and given the most anxious and repeated instructions to the woman 


78 the merchant’s clerk. 

of the house to be attentive to Mr. Elliott in her absence — sat down 
and shed many teais as she laid upon llie table a letter, carefully 
sealed, and addressed to her husband, containing the information of 
her departure and destination. When her ligitation had somewhat 
subsided, she left the room— perhaps, she felt, forever— entered 
into the coach, and was soon sately lodged in the lying-hospital. 

The letter to her husband was as follows— for the melancholy 
events which will be presently narrated, brought this with other 
documents into my possession. 

“My Sweet Loye,— The hour of my agony is approaching; 
and Providence has pointed out to me a place of refuge. I can not, 
dearest Henry — I can not think of adding to your sufferings by the 
sight of mine! When all isjover— as 1 trust it will be soon, and 
happily— then we shall be reunited, and God grant us happier days! 
Oli, do not be grieved or angry, Henry, at the step 1 am taking. I 
have done it for the best— it will be tor the best, depend upon it. 

Dr. will tell you how skillfully and kindly they treal their 

patients at the lying-in hospital to which L am going. Oh, Henry! 
you are the delight of my soul! The more grief and bitterness we 
have seen together, surely the more do we love one another. Oh 
hew 1 love you! How I prayed in the night while you, dearest, 
were sleeping, that the Almighty would bless you and our little 
Harry, and be merciful to me, for your sakes, and bring us all to- 
gether again! 1 shall pray tor you, mjr ] 0 ve — my own lore! — every 
hour that we are away ! Bear up a little longer, Henry! God lias 
not deserted us— he will not — he can not if we do not desert him. 1 
leave you, dearest, my Bible and prayer-book- -oh, do read them! 
Kiss my little Harry in my name, every day. How kind are Dr. 

and Mrs. ! Go out and enjoy the fresh air, and do not sit 

fretting at home, love; nor try your eyes with reading or writing till 
1 come back. 1 can hardly lay by my pen. but the coach is come 
for me, and 1 must tear myself away. Farewell, then, my dear, 
dear, darling Henry; but only for a little while. 

“ Your doting wife, 
“Mary. 

“ P. 8. — The socks I have been knitting for Harry are in the 

drawer near the window. You had better take them to Dr. ’s 

to-morrow, as 1 forgot to send them with Harry in the bustle of liis 

going, and he will want them. Dr. says you can come and 

see me every day before 1 am taken ill. Do come.” 

I called in the evening, according to the promise I had made to 
Mrs. Elliott, on her husband, to see hoYf he bore the discovery of 
his wife’s sudden departure. 

“ How is Mr. Elliott?” 1 inquired of the woman of the house, 
who opened the door. “ Is he at home?” 

“ Why, yes — but he’s in a sad way, sir, indeed, about Mrs. 
Elliott’s going. He’s eaten nothing all day.” 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 79 

He was sitting at a table when I entered, with a solitary candle, 
and Mrs. Elliott’s letter lying before him. 

“ Oh! doctor, is not this worse than death?” he exclaimed. ** Am 
I not left alone to be the prey of Satan?” 

‘‘Come, come, Mr. Elliott, moderate your feelings! Learn the 
lesson your incomparable wife has taught you— patience and resig- 
nation.” 

“ It is a heavenly lesson. But can a fiend learn it?” he replied, 
vehemently, in a tone and with an air that quite startled me. *‘ Here 
I am left alone by God and man to be the sport of devils, and 1 am! 
What curse is there that has not fallen, or is falling upon me? 1 
feel assured,” he continued, gloomily, “ that my Mary is taken from 
me forever. Oh, do not tell me otherwise. 1 feel— 1 know it! 1 
have brought ruin upon her! 1 have brought her to beggary by an 
insane, a wicked attachment! The curses of disobedience to par- 
ents are fully upon both of us! Yet our misery might have touched 
any heart except that of her fiendish father. Ah! he buries her 
mother to morrow! To-morrow, then, I will be there! The earth 
shall not fall upon her before he looks upon me! How 1 will make 
the old man shake beside the grave-lie must soon drop into!” He 
drew a long breath. “ Let him curse me!— curse her— curse us 
bolli!— curse our child! There and then — ” 

“ The curse causeless shall not come,” 1 interrupted. 

“Ay, causeless! That’s the thing! Causeless!” He paused. 
“ Forgive me,” he added,. after a heavy sigh, resuming his usual 
manner; “ doctor, I’ve been raving, and can you wonder at it? Poor 
Mary’s letter (here it is) has almost killed me! 1 have been to the 
place where she is, but 1 dared not go in to see her. Oh, doctor! 
will she be taken care of?” suddenly seizing my hand with convul- 
sive energy. 

“ The very greatest care will be taken of her — the greatest skill in 
Loudon will be instantly at her command in case of the slightest 
necessity for it— as well as every possible comfort and convenience 
that her situation can require. If it will be any consolation to you, 
1 assure you I intend visiting her myself every day.” And by these 
means 1 at length succeeded in restoring something like calmness 
to him. The excitement occasioned by his unexpected discovery of 
his wife’s absence, and its touching reason, had been aggravated by 
the unfavorable opinion concerning his sight which had been that 
morning expressed— alas, I feared, but too justly— by the able and 
experienced oculist under whose care he was placed. He had in 
much alarm heard Mr. ask him several questions respecting 


80 


THE* MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


peculiar and secret symptoms and sensations about the eves* which 
he was forced to answer in the affirmative; and the alarming effect 
of these inquiries was not dissipated by the cautious replies of Mr. 
to his questions as to the chances of ultimate recovery. 1 as- 
sured him that nothing on earth could so effectually serve him as 
the cultivation of calm and composed habits of mind; for (hat the 
affection of his eyes depended almost entirely upon the condition of 
his nervous system. 1 got him to promise me that be would aban- 
don his wild and useless purpose of attending the funeral of Mrs. 
Hillary— said 1 would call upon him, accompanied by his little son, 
about noon the next day, and also briDg him tidings concerning 
Mrs. Elliott. 

1 was as good as my w r ord ; but not he. The woman of the house 
told me that he had left home about twelve o’clock, and did not say 
when he would return. He had gone to St. ’s Church, I after- 

ward learned from him. He "watched the funeral procession into 
the church, and placed himself in a pew which- commanded a near 
view of that occupied by the chief mourner, Mr. Hillary; who, 
however never once raised his head from the handkerchief in which 
his countenance was buried. When the body was borne to the 
grave, Elliott followed, and took his place beside the grave as near 
Mr. Hillary as the attendants and the crowd would admit of. He 
several times formed the determination to interrupt the service by a 
solemn and public appeal to Mr. Hillary, on the subject of his de- 
serted daughter — but his tongue failed him, his feelings over- 
powered him; and he staggered from where he stood to an adjoin- 
ing tombstone, which he leaned against till the brief and solemn 
scene was concluded, and the mourners began to return. Once more, 
with desperate purpose, he approached the procession, and came up 
to Mr. Hillary just as he was being assisted into the coach. 

“ Look at me. sir,” said he, suddenly tapping Mr. Hillary upon 
the shoulder. The old man seemed paralyzed for a moment, and 
stared at him as if he did not know the strange intruder. 

“ My name is -Elliott, sir; your forsaken daughter is my heart- 
broken, starving wife! do you relent, sir?” 

” Elliott! Keep him away — keep him away, tor God’s sake!” ex- 
claimed Mr. Hillary, his face full of disgust and horror; and the 
attendants violently dragged the intruder from the spot where he 
was standing, and kept him at a distance till the coach containing 
Mi. Hillary had driven oil. Elliott then returned home, which he 
reached about an hour after 1 had called. He paid me a visit in the 
evening, and 1 was glad to see him so much calmer than 1 had ex- 


81 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 

pected. He apologized with much earnestness for his breach of 
faith. He said he had found it impossible to resist the impulse 
which led him, in spite of all he had said overnight, to attend the 
funeral; for he had persuaded himself of the more than possibility 
that his sudden and startling appearance at so solemn a moment 
might effect an alteration in Mr. Hillary’s feelings toward him. He 
gave me a? full account of what had happened, and assured roe with 
a melancholy air that lie had now satisfied himself — had nothing to 
hope for further — nothing to disturb him— and he would attend to 
my injunctions and those of his surgical adviser at the infirmary. 
He told me that he had seen Mrs. Elliott about an hour before, and 
had left her in comparatively good spirits; but the people of the 
hospital had told him that her confinement was hourly expected. 

“ 1 wonder,” said he, and sighed profoundly, “ what effect her 
death would have upon Mr. Hillary? Would he castoff her chil- 
dren, as he had cast her off? Would his hatred follow her into the 
grave? Now what should you say, doctor?” 

The matter-of-fact, not to say indifferent air, with which this very 
grave question was put, not a little surprised me. “ Why, he must 
be obdurate indeed it such were to be the case,” I answered. ‘‘ i 
am in hopes, however, that, in spite of all that has happened, he 
will ere long be brought to a sense of his guilt and cruelty in so 
long defying the dictates of conscience— the voice of nature. When 
he finds himself alone — ” 

Elliott shook his head. 

“ It must be a thundering blow, doctor, that would make his iron 
heart feel — and — that blow ”— he sighed — “ may come much sooner 
it may be — ” He shuddered, and looked at me with a wild air of 
apprehension. 

“ Let us hope for the best, however, Mr. Elliott! Rely upon it, 
the present calmness of your inestimable wife affords grounds for 
the happiest expectations concerning the approaching—” 

“ Ah! I hope you may not be mistaken! Her former accouche- 
ment was a long and dangerous one. ” 

“ Perhaps the very reason why her jrresent may be an easy one!” 
He looked at me mournfully. 

. “And suppose it to be so— what a home has the poor creature to 
return to after her suffering! Is not that a dreary prospect?” 

It w r as growing late, however; and presently taking an affection 
ate leave of his son, who had been sitting all the while on his knee 
overpowered with drowsiness, he left. 


82 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


Mrs. Elliott was taken ill on Sunday about midnight; and after a 
somewhat severe and protracted labor was delivered on Monday 
evening of a child that died a few minutes after its birth. Raving 
directed the people at the hospital to summon me directly Mrs. 
Elliott was taken ill, 1 was in attendance upon her within an hour 
after her illness had commenced. I sent a messenger on Monday 
morning to Mr. Elliott, according to the promise 1 had given him 
immediately to send him the earliest information, with an entreaty 
that he would remain at home all day to be in readiness to receive a 
visit from me. He came down, however, to the hospital almost im- 
mediately after receiving my message; and walked to and fro before 
the institution, making anxious inquiries every ten minutes or quar- 
ter of an hour how his wife went on, and received ready and often 
encouraging answers. When I quitted her for the night, about an 
hour after her delivery, leaving her much exhausted, but, as 1 too 
confidently supposed, out of danger, 1 earnestly entreated Mr. Elliott, 
who continued before the institution gates in a state of the highest 
excitement, to return home, but in vain; and I left him with expres- 
sions of severe djspleasure, assuring him that his conduct was ab- 
surd and useless— nay, criminally dangerous to himself. “ W r hat 
will become of your sight, Mr. Elliott — pray think of that! — if you 
will persist in working yourself up to this dreadful pitch of nervous 
excitement? 1 do assure you that you are doing yourself every hour 
mischief which— which it may require months, if not years, to 
remedy; and is it kind to her you love— to those you ought to con- 
sult— whose interests are dependent upon yourself— thus to throw 
away the chances of recovery? Pray, Mr. Elliott, listen, listen to 
reason, and return home!” He made me no reply, but wept, and I 
left, hoping that what I had said would soon produce the desired 
effect. 

About four o’clock in the morning 1 was awaked by a violent 
ringing of the bell and knocking at the door; and on hastily looking 
out of the bedroom window, there was Mr. Elliott. 

“ What is the matter, there?” 1 inquired. “ Is it you, Mr. 
Elliott?” 

“ Oh, doctor, doctor— for God’s sake come! My wife, my wife! 
She’s dying!— they have told me so! Come, doctor, oh, come!” 
Though 1 had been exceedingly fatigued with the labors of the pre- 
ceding day, this startling summons soon dissipated my drowsiness, 
and in less than five minutes I was by his side. We ran almost all 
the way to the nearest coach-stand: and on reaching the hospital, 
found that there existed but too much ground for apprehension; for 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 83 

about two o’clock very alarming symptoms of profuse hemorrhage 
made their appearance; and when 1 reached her bedside, a little 
after four o’clock, 1 saw, in common with the experienced resident 
accoucheur, who was also present, that her life was indeed trem- 
bling in the balance. While 1 sat watching, with feelings of melan- 
choly interest and alarm, her snowy inanimate countenance, a tap 
on my shoulder from one of the female attendants attracted my eyo 
to the door, where the chief matron of the establishment was stand- 
ing. She beckoned me out of the room; and 1 noiselessly stepped 
out after her. 

“ The husband of this poor lady,” said Mrs. — — , “ is in a dread- 
ful state, doctor, in the street. The porter has sent up word that he 
fears the gentleman is going mad, and will be attempting to break 
open the gates; that he insists upon being shown at once into kis 
wife’s room, or at least within the house! Pray oblige me, doctor, 
t>y going down and trying to pacify him! This will never do, you 
know — the other patients—” I hastened down-stairs, and stepped 
quickly across the yard. My heart yearned toward the poor dis- 
tracted being who stood outside the iron gates, with bis arms 
stretched toward me through the bars. 

“ Oh, say, is she alive? Is she alive?” he cried, with a lament- 
able voice. 

“ Blie is, Mr. Elliott — but really — ” 

‘‘Oh, she is alive? Are you telling me truly? Is she indeed 
alive?” 

‘‘Yes, yes, Mr„ Elliott: but if you don’t cease to make such a 
dreadful disturbance,' your voice may reach her ear, and that would 
be instant death — indeed it would.” 

“ 1 will! 1 will — but is she indeed alive? Don’t deceive me!” 

“ Ibis is the way he’s been going on all night,” whispered the 
watchman, who had just stepped up. 

“ Mr. Elliott, 1 tell you, truly, in the name of God, your wife is 
living— and 1 have not given up hope of her recovery.” 

“Oil, Mary! Mary! Mary! Oh, come to me, my Mary! You 
said that you would return to me!” 

“ Hadn’t J better take him away, sir?” said the watchman. “ The 
porter says lie’ll be awakening all the women in the hospital— 
Shall 1?” 

“ Let me stay— let me stay! I’ll give you all I have in the world! 
I’ll give you forty pounds— I will, 1 will,” cried the unfortunate 
husband, clinging to the bars, and looking imploringly at me. 


84 THE MERCHANT’S . CLERK. 

V Do not interfere— do not touch him, sir,” said I, to the watch- 
man. 

“ Thank you! God bless you!” gasped the wretched sufferer, ex- 
tending his hands toward mine, and wringing them convulsively; 
(hen turning to the watchman, he added, in a lower tone, the most 
piteous 1 ever heard, “ Don’t take me away! My wife is here; she’s 
dying— 1 can’t go away — but I’ll not make any more noise! Hush, 
hush! there is some one coming!” A person approached from within 
the building, and whispering a few hurried words in my ear, retired. 
“ Mr. Elliott, shake hands with me,” said 1, “ Mrs. Elliott is reviv- 
ing! 1 told you 1 had hope! The accoucheur has this instant sent 
me word that he thinks the case has taken a favorable turn.” He 
sunk down suddenly on his knees in silence; then grasped my hands 
through the bars, and shook them convulsively. He ihen, in t He 
fervor of his frantic feeling, turned to the watchman, grasped his 
hands, and shook them. 

‘‘Hush! hush!” he gasped—” don’t speak— it will disturb her! A 
single sound may kill her. Ah ”— he looked with agonized appre- 
hension at the mail coach which that moment rattled rapidly and 
loudly by. At length he became so much calmer, that after pledg- 
ing myself to return to him shortly, especially if any unfavorable 
change should take place, 1 withdrew, and repaired to the chamber 
where lay the poor unconscious creature — the subject of her hus- 
band’s wild and dreadful anxieties. I found that 1 had not been 
misinformed; and though Mrs. Elliott lay in the most precarious 
situation possible, with no sign of life in her pallid countenance, and 
no pulse discernible at her wrist, we had reason for believing that a 
favorable change had taken place. After remaining in silence by her 
side for about a quartei of an hour, during which she seemed to 
sleep, I took my departure, and conveyed the delightful intelligence 
to the poor sufferer without, that his hopes were justified by the 
situation in which I had left my sweet patient. I succeeded in per- 
suading him to accompany me home, and restoring him to a little 
composure: but the instant that he swallowed a hasty eup of coffee, 
without waiting even to see his little boy, who was being dressed to 
come down as usual to breakfast, he left the house and returned to 
the hospital, where 1 found him, as before, on driving up about 
twelve o’clock, but walking calmly to and fro before the gates. 
What anguish was written in his features! Hut a smile passed over 
them — a joyful air, as he told me before 1 could quit my carriage, 
that all was still going on well. It was so, 1 ascertained; and on re- 
turning from the hospital, I almost forced him into my carriage, and 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


85 


drove off to liis lodging, where I stayed till he had got into bed, ana 
had solemnly promised me to remain there till 1 called in the even- 
ing- 

For three days Mrs. Elliott continued in the most critical circum- 
stances ; during which her husband was almost every other hour at the 
hospital, and at length so wearied every one with his anxious and 
incessant inquiries, that they would hardly give him civil answers 
any longer. Had 1 not twice bled him with my own hand, and my- 
se’f administered to him soothing and lowering medicines, he would 
certainly, 1 think, have gone raving mad. On the fifth day Mrs. 
Elliott was pronounced out ot danger, but continued, of course, in 
a very exhausted state. Her first inquiries were about her husband, 
then her little Henry: and on receiving a satisfactory answer, a 
sweet sad smile stole over her features, and her feeble fingers gently 
compressed mine. Before I quitted her, she asked whether her hus- 
band might be permitted to see her. 1 of course answered in the 
negative. A tear stole down her cheek, but she did not attempt to 
utter a syllable. 

The pressure of professional engagements did not admit of my 
seeing Mr. Elliott more than once or twice during the next week. 
1 frequently .heard of him, however, at the hospital, where he called 
constantly three times a day, but had not yet been permitted to see 
Mrs. Elliott, who was considered, and in my opinion justly, unequal 
to the excitement of such an interview. 

The dreadful mental agony in which he had spent the last fort- 
night, was calculated to produce the most fatal effects upon his 
eyesight; of which, indeed, he seemed himself but too conscious, 
for every symptom of which he had complained was mast fearfully 
aggravated. Nevertheless, 1 could not prevail upon him— at least, 
he said,- for the present— to continue his visits to the eye-infirmary. 
He said, with a melancholy air, that he had too many, and very differ- 
ent mattets to attend to— and he must postpone, for the present, all 
attention to his own complaints. Alas! he had many other subjects 
of anxiety than his own ailments! Supposing his poor wife to be 
restored to him, even in a moderate degree of strength and con- 
valescence— what prospect was before them? What means remained 
of obtaining a livelihood? What chance was there of her inexora- 
ble old father changing his fell purpose? Was his wife then to quit 
the scene of her almost mortal sufferings, only to perish before his 
e y es _of want? And her father wallowing in wealth— the thought 
was horrible! Elliott sat at home alone, thinking ot these things, 
and shuddered; he quitted his home, and wandered through the 


86 


THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 

streets with vacant eye and blighted heart, “ He wandereth abroad 
for bread, saying where is it? He knoweth that the day of darkness 
is ready at his hand.”* 

Fiiday . — This morning my wife called, at my suggestion, to see 
Mrs. Elliott, accompanied by her little boy, whom 1 had perceived 
she was pining to see. 1 thought they might meet without afford- 
ing ground for uneasiness as to the result. 

‘‘My little Harry!” exclaimed a low soil voice as my wife and 
child were silently ushered into the ror»m where lay Mrs. Elliott, 
wasted almost to a shadow, her face and hands, said my wife, white 
as the lily. “ Come, love, kiss me!” she faintly murmured; and 
my wife brought the child to the bedside, and lifting him upon her 
knee, inclined his face toward his mother. She feebly placed her 
arm around his neck, and pressed him to her bosom. 

“ Let me see his face!” she whispered, removing her arm. 

She gazed tenderly at him for some minutes; the child looking 
first at her and then at my wife with mingled fear and surprise. 

‘‘ How .ike his father!” she murmured — kiss me again, love! 
Don’t be afraid of your poor mother, Harry!” Her eyes filled with 
tears. “ Am 1 so altered?” said she to my wife, who stammered 
yes and no in one breath. 

‘‘ Has he been a good boy?” 

“ Very — very,” replied my wife, turning aside her head, unable 
for a moment to look either mother or son in the face. Mrs. Elliott 
perceived my wife’s emotion, and her chill fingers gently grasped 
her hand. 

“ Does he say his prayers? — you’ve not forgotten that, Henry?” 

The child, whose little breast was beginning to heave, shook his 
head, and lisped a faint, “ No, mamma.” 

“ God bless thee, my darling!” exclaimed his mother, in a low 
tone, closing her eyes. ‘‘ He will not desert tnee, nor thy parents. 
He. feeds the young ravens when they cry!” She paused, and tne 
tears trembled through her almost transparent eyelids. My wife 
who had with the utmost difficulty restrained her feelings, leaned 
over the poor sufferer, pressed her lips to her forehead, and gently 
taking the child with her, stepped hastily from the room. As soon 
as they had got into the matron’s parlor, where my wife sat down 
for a few moments, her little companion burst into tears, and cried 
as if Lis heart would break. The matron tried to pacify him, but 


* Job x. 


THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 


87 


in vain. “ I hope, ma’am,” said she, to my wife, ‘* he did not cry 

in this way before his mother? Dr. and Mr. both say 

that she must not be agitated in any way, or they will not answer 
for the consequences.” At this moment I made my appearance, 
having called, in passing, to pay a visit to Mrs. Elliott; but hearing 
how much her late interview had overcome her, I left, taking my 
wife and little Elliott— still sobbing— with me, and promising to 
look in, if possible, in the evening. I did do so, accordingly; and 
found her. happily none the. worse for the emotion occasioned by 
her first interview with her child since her illness. She expressed 
herself very grateful to me for the care which she said we had evi- 
dently taken of him — “ and how like he grows to his poor father!” 
she added. “ Oh! doctor, when may 1 see him? Do, dear doctor, 
let us meet, if it be but for a moment! Oh, how 1 long to see him! 
1 will not be agitated. It will do me more good than all the medi- 
cine in this building!” 

“ In a tew days’ time, my dear madam, 1 assure you — ” 

“ "Why not to-rhorrow? Oh, if you knew the good that one look 
of his would do me— he does not look ill?” she inquired, suddenly. 

“ He — he looks certainly rather harassed on your account; but in 
other respects, he is—” 

“Promise me — let me see for myself; oh bring him with you! 
.1—1—1 own I could not bear to see him alone- but in your prcc- 
ence— do, dear doctor! promise! 1 shall sleep so sweetly to-night 
if you will.” 

Her looks— her tender murmuring voice overcame me; and 1 
promised to bring Mr. Elliott with me some time on the morrow. 1 
bade her good-night. 

“ Remember, doctor!” she whispered as 1 rose to go. 

“Iwill !” said 1, and quitted the room, already almost repenting o£ 
the rash promise I had made. But who could have resisted her? 

Sweet soul! what was to become of thee? Bred up in the lap of 
luxury, and accustomed to have every wish gratified, every want 
anticipated— what kind of scene writed thee on returning to tliy 
humble lodging, 

“ Where hopeless Anguish pour’d her groan, 

And lonely Want retired to die ”? 

For was it not so? What miracle was to save them from starvation? 

Full of such melancholy reflections, 1 walked home, resolving to 
leave no stone unturned on their behalf, and pledging myself and 
wife that the forty pounds we had already collected for the Elliotts, 


88 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


from among our benevolent friends, 'should be. raised to a hundred, 
however great might be the deficiency we made up ourselves. 

Saturday . — I was preparing to pay some early visits to distant 
patients, and arranging so as to take Mr. Elliott with me on my re- 
turn. which I calculated would be about two o’clock, to pay the 
promised visit to Mrs. Elliott, when my servant brought me a hand- 
ful of letters which had that moment been left by the twopenny 
postman. 1 was going to cram them all into my pocket, and read 
them in the carriage, when my eye was attracted by one of them 
much larger than the rest, sealed with a black seal, and the address 
in Elliott’s handwriting. 1 instantly resumed my seat; and placing 
the other letters in my pocket, proceeded to break the seal with some 
trepidation, which increased to a sickening degree when four letters 
fell out — all of them sealed with black, and in Elliott’s handwriting, 
and addressed respectively to “Jacob Hillary, Esq.,” “Mrs. 

Elliott,” “ Henry Elliott,” and “Dr. ” (myself.) 1 sat for a 

minute or two, with this terrible array before me, scarce daring to 
breathe, or to trust myself with my thoughts, when my wife en- 
tered, leading in her constant companion, little Elliott, to take their 
leave, as usual, before 1 set out for the day. The sight of “ Henry 
Elliott,” to whom one ole these portentous letters was addressed, 
overpowered me. My wife, seeing me much discomposed, was be- 
ginning to inquire the reason, when 1 rose, and with gentle force 
put her out of the room and bolted the door, hurriedly telling her 
that 1 had just received unpleasant accounts concerning one or two 
of my patients. With trembling hands 1 opened the letter which 
was addressed to me, and read with infinite consternation as fol- 
lows: 

“ When you are reading these few lines, kind doctor! 1 shall be 
sweetly sleeping the sleep of death. All will be over; there will be 
one wretch the less upon the earth. 

“ God, before whom. I shall be standing face to face, while you 
read this letter, will, 1 hope, have mercy upon me, and forgive me 
for appearing before him uncalled for. Amen! 

“ But I could not live. I felt blindness-— the last curse — descend- 
ing upon me— blindness and beggary. I saw my wife broken heart- 
ed. Nothing but misery and starvation before her and her child. 

“ Oh, has she not loved me with a noble love? And yet it is thus 
1 leave her! But she knows how through life 1 have returned her 
love, and she will hereafter find that love alone led me to take this 
dreadful step. 

“ Grievous has been the misery she has borne for my sake. I 
thought, in marrying her, that I might have overcome the difficul- 
ties which threatened us— that 1 might have struggled successfully 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


89 


at least for our bread; but He oidered otherwise, and it has been in 
vain for me to rise up eaily, to sit up late, to eat the> bread of sor- 
rows. 

“ Why did 1 leave life? Because I know, as if a voice from 
Heaven had told me, that my deatii will reconcile Mary and her fa- 
ther. It is me alone whom he hates, and her only on my account. 
When I shall be gone, he will receive her to his arms, and she and 
my son will be happy.” 

“ Oh, my God! that 1 shall never see the face of Mary again, or — 
But presently she will look at our son, and she will revive. 

“ I entreat you as in the name of the dead— it is a voice from the 
grave— to be yourself the bearer of this news to Maiy, when, and 
as you may think fit. Give her this letter, and also give, yourself, 
to Mr. Hillarys, the letter which bears his dreadful name upon it. I 
know — I feel— that it will open his heart, and he will receive them 
to his arms. 

” 1 have written also a few lines io my son. Ah, mv boy, your 
father will be ruddered into dust before you will understand what 
1 have written. Grieve for your unfortunate father, but do not— 
disown him! 

“ As for you, best of men, my only friend, tare well! Forgive all 
the trouble 2 have given. God reward you! You will be in my 
latest thoughts. 1 have written to you last. 

“ Now 1 have done. I am calm; the bitterness of death is past. 
Farewell l The grave — tho darkness of death is upon my soul — but 
1 have no fear. To-night, before this candle shall have burned out, 
at midnight— Oh, Mary! Henry! shall we ever meet again? 

“ H. E. ” 

1 read this letter over half a dozen times, for every paragraph 
pushed tho preceding one out of my memory. Then I took up me- 
chanically and opened the letter addressed to his son. It contained 
a large lock of his father’s hair, and the following verses,* written 
iu a great straggling hand : — 

“ I havo wished for death; wherefore do I not call for my son? 

“ My son, when 1 am dead, buiy me; and despise not thy mother,* 
but honor her all the days of tb.y life, and do that which shall please 
her, and grieve her not. 

“ Remember, my son, that she saw many dangers tor thee when 
thou wast in her womb; and when she is dead bury her by me in 
one grave. 

“ Thus on the point of death, writes thy father to his beloved son. 
Remember! 

“ Henry Elliott.” 

As soon as 1 had somewhat recovered the shock occasioned by the 
perusal of these letters, I folded them all up, stepped hastily into my 
carriage, and postponing all my other visits, drove oft direct to the 


* From the Apocrypha. Tobit, ch. iv., ver. 2 , 3, 4. 


90 


THE MERCHAHT’s 'cLERK. 

lodging of Mr. Elliott. The woman of the house was standing at 
the door, talking earnestly witlhone or two persons. 

“ Where is Mr. Elliott ?” 1 inquired, leaping out of the carriage. 

“ That’s what we want to know, sir,” replied the woman, very 
pale. “ He must have* gone out very late last night, sir— and 
hasn’t been back since; for when 1 looked into his room this morn- 
ing to ask about breakfast, it was empty.” 

“ Did you observe anything particular in his appearance last 
night?” 1 inquired, preparing to ascend the little staircase. 

“ Tes, sir, very strange like! And about eight or nine o’clock, 

he comes to the top of the stairs, and calls out, ‘ Mrs. , did you 

hear that noise? Didn’t j t ou see something?’ ‘ Lud, sir,’ said 1, 
in a taking, he spoke so sudden, ‘ no! there wasn’t any sound what- 
soever!’ so he went into his room, and shut the door, and 1 never , 
seed him since.” 

I hastened to his room. A candlestick, its candle burned down 
to the socket, stood on the little table at which he generally sat, to- 
gether with a pen or two, ink, black wax, a sheet of paper, and a 
Bible open at the place from which he had copied the words ad- 
dressed to his son. The room was apparently just as its unfortu- 
nate and frantic occupant had quitted it. 1 opened the table 
drawer; it was full of paper which had been covered with writing, 
aDd was now torn into small fragments. One half sheet was left, 
lull of strange incoherent expressions, apparently forming part of a 
prayer, and evincing, alas, how fearfully, the writer’s reason was 
disturbed l But where was poor Elliott! What mode of death had 
he selected? 

At first I thought of instantly advertising and describing his per- 
son, aud issuing handbills about the neighborhood; but at length 
.determined to wait till Monday’s newspapers — some one of which 
might contain intelligehce concerning him which might direct my 
movements. And in the meantime— how was 1 to appear before 
Mrs. Elliott, and account for my not bringing her husband? 1 de- 
termined to send her a written excuse, on the score of pressimr and 
unexpected engagements, but promising to call upon her either on 
Sunday or Monday. 1 resolved to do nothing rashly: for it glanced 
across my mind, as possible, that Elliott had not really carried into 
execution the dreadful intentions expressed in his letter to me, but 
had resorted to a stratagem only in order to terrify Mr. Hillary into 
a reconciliation. This notion took such full possession of my heat- 
ed imagination, that 1 at length lost sight of all the glaring improb- 
abilities attending it.' Alas, however, almost the first paragraph 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


91 


that fell under my hurried eye, in scanning over the papers of Mon- 
day, was the following: — 

“ On Saturday, about eight o’clock in the morning, some laborers 
discovered the body of a man of respectable appearance, apparent^ 
about thirty years old, floating, without a hat, in the New River. 
It was immediately taken out of the water, but life seemed to have 
been for some hours extinct. One or two letters were found upon 
his person, but the writing was too much spread and blotted with 
the water to afford any clew to the identity of the unfortunate per- 
son. The body lies at the Red Roar public house, where a coroner’s 
inquest is summoned for to-day at twelve o’clock.” 

1 drove off to the place mentioned in the paragraph, and arrived 
there just as the jury was assembling. There was a considerable 
crowd about the doors. I sent in my card ; and stating that 1 be- 
lieved 1 could identify the body for which the inquest was sum- 
moned, 1 was allowed to view the corpse, and ushered at once into 
the room where it lay. 

1 wish Mr. Hillary could have entered that room with me, and 
have stood beside me, as I stepped sliudderingly forward, and per- 
ceived that I was looking upon — his victim! The body lay wiltfits 
wet clothes undisturbed, just as it had been taken out of the water. 
The damp hair, the eyes wide open, the hands clinched as if with the 
agonies of death! 

Here lay the husband of Mrs. Elliott — the fond object of her un- 
conquerable love! This w T as he to whom she had written so ten- 
derly on quitting him! Here lay he whom she had so sweetly con- 
soled by almost daily messages through me! This was he to whom, 
with a pious confidence, she had predicted her speedy and happy 
return! This was the father of that sweet boy who sat prattling at 
my table only that morning! This — wretch! monster! fiend! — this 
is the body of him you flung, on an infamous charge, into the dun- 
geons of'Newgate! This is the figure of him that shall hereafter — 
1 could bear it no longer, and rushed from the room in an agony! 
After drinking a glass of water 1 recovered my self-possession suf- 
ficiently to make my appearance in the jury room, where 1 deposed 
to such facts — carefully cdhcealing, only for Mrs. Elliott and her 
son’s sake, the causes which led to the commission of the fatal act 
— as satisfied the jury that the deceased had destroyed himself while 
in a state of mental derangement; and they returned their verdict 
accordingly. 

After directing the immediate removal of the body tothejiouse 
where Mr. Elliott had lodged— -the scene of so many agonies— of 


92 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


such intense and undeserved misery— 1 drove off, and, though quite 
unequal to the task, hurried through my round of patients, anx- 
ious to be at leisure in the evening for the performance of the sol- 
emn — the terrible duty imposed upon me by poor Elliott— the con- 
veying his letter to Mr. Hillary, and communicating, at the same 
time, with all the energy in my power, the awful results of his 
cruel, his tyrannical, his unnatural conduct. How I prayed that 
God would give me power to shake that old man’s guilty soul! 

Our dinner was sent away that day almost untouched. My wife 
and I interchanged but few and melancholy words; our noisy, live- 
ly little guest was not present to disturb, by his innocent sallies, the 
mournful silence; for unable to bear his presence, 1 had directed 
that he should not be brought down that day. 1 had written to 
Mrs. Elliott a brief and hasty line, saying that I had just seen Mr. 
Elliott! but that it would be impossible tor either of us to call upon 
her that day, adding that 1 would certainly call upon her the day 
after, and— Heaven pardon the equivoation!— bring Mr. Elliott, if 
possible, which 1 feared might be doubtful, as his eyes were under 
very active treatment. 

1 have had to encounter iu my time many, very many trying and 
terrible scenes; but 1 never approached any with so much apprehen- 
sion and anxiety as the one now cast upon me. Fortifying myself 
with a few glasses of wine, 1 put poor Elliott’s letter to Mr. Hillary 

in my pocket-book, and drove oft tor Square. I reached the 

house about eight o’clock. My servant, by my direction, thundered 
impetuously at the door — a startling summons I intended it to be! 
The porter drew open the door almost before my servant had re- 
moved his hand from the knocker. 

“ Is Mr. Hillary at home?” 1 inquired, stepping hurriedly from 
my carriage, with the fearful letter in my hand. 

“ He is, sir,” said the man, with a flurried air— ‘‘ but— he— he — 
does not receive company, sir, since my mistress’s death.” 

“ Take my card to him, sir. My name is Dr. ! 1 must see 

Mr. Hillary instantly.” 

1 waited in the hall for a few moments, and then received a 
message, requesting me to walk into the back drawing-room. There 
1 saw Miss Gubbley — as tlie servant told me — alone, and dressed in 
deep mourning. What 1 heard of this woman inspired me with the 
utmost contempt and hatred for her. What a countenance! Mean- 
ness, malice, cunning, and sycophancy seemed struggling for the 
ascendant in its expression. 

“ Pardon me, madam— my business,” said 1, peremptorily, “ is 


93 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 

not with you, but with Mr. Hillary. Him 1 must see, and imme- 
diately.” 

“ Hr. , what is the matter?” she inquired, with mingled anger 

and anxiety in her countenance. 

“ 1 have a communication for Mr. Hillary’s private ear— 1 must 
see him; 1 insist upon seeing him immediately.” 

“ This is strange conduct, sir, really,” said Miss Gubbley, in an 
impudent manner, but her features becoming every moment paler 
and paler. “ Have you not already-^-” 

I unceremoniously pushed the malignant little parasite aside, 
opened the folding-doors, and stepped instantly into the presence of 
the man 1 at once desired and dreaded lo see. He sat on -the sofa, 
in the attitude and with the expression of a man who had been sud- 
denly aroused from sleep. 

“ Dr. he exclaimed, with an astonished and angry air; 

“ Your servant, doctor ! Wliat's the meaning of all this?” 

“ 1 am sorry to intrude upon you, Mr. Hillary — especially after 
the unpleasant manner in which our acquaintance was terminated 
— but— 1 have a dreadful duty to perform ’’—pointing to the letter 
1 held, and turning toward him its black seal. He saw it. He 
seemed rather startled or alarmed; motioned me,, with a quick, 
anxious bow, to take a seat, and resumed his own. “ Excuse me, 
Mr. Hillary — but we must be alone,” said 1, pointing to Miss Gub- 
bley, who had followed me with a suspicious and insolent air, ex- 
claiming, as she stepped hastily toward Mr. Hillary — “ Don’t suffer 
this conduct, sirl It’s very incorrect — very, sir.” 

‘‘We must be alone, sir,” I repeated, calmly and peremptorily, 
“ or I shall retire at once. You would never cease to repent that, 
sir;” and Mr. Hillary, as it he had suddenly discovered some strange 
meaning in my eye, motioned the pertinacious intruder to the door, 
and she reluctantly obeyed. 1 drew my chair near Mr. Hillary, 
who seemed, by this time, thoroughly alarmed. 

“ Will you read this letter, sir?” said I, handing it to him. He 
took it into his hand; looked first at the direction, then at the seal, 
and lastly at me, in silence. 

“ Do yoii know that handwriting, sir?” I inquired. 

• He stammered an answer in the negative. 

“ Look at it, sir, again. You ought to know it— you must know 
it well.” Pie laid down the letter; fumbled in his waistcoat pocket 
for his glasses; placed them with infinite trepidation upon his fore- 
head, and again took the letter into his hands, which shook vio- 


94 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 

lently; and his sight was so confused with agitation, that 1 saw he 
could make nothing ot it. 

“It seems— it appears to be— a man’s band, sir. Whose is it? 
What is it about? What’s the matter?” he exclaimed, looking at 
me over his glasses with a frightened stare. 

“ 1 have attended, sir, a coroner’s inquest this morning^-” The 
letter dropped instantly from Mr. Hillary’s shaking baud upon the 
floor; bis lips slowly opened. 

“ The writer of that letter, 'sir, was found drowned on Saturday 
last,” l continued, slowly, looking steadfastly at him, and feeling 
myself grow paler every moment. “ This day 1 saw the body 
stretched upon a shutter, at an inn. Oh, those dreadful eyes — that 
hair, matted and .muddy --those clinched hands! Horror filled my 
soul, as 1 looked at all this, and thought of you!” 

His lips moved, he uttered a few unintelligible sounds, and his 
face, suddenly bedewed with perspiration, assumed one of the most 
ghastly expressions that a human countenance could exhibit. I re- 
mained silent, nor did he speak; but the big drops rolled from his 
forehead and fell upon the floor. In the pier-glass oppcsite, to 
which my eye was attracted by seeing some moving figure reflected 
in it, I beheld the figure ol Miss Gubbley; who, having.been no 
doubt listening at the door, could no longer subdue her terrified 
curiosity, and stole into the room on tiptoe, and stood terror-stricken 
behind my chair. Her presence seemed to restore Mr. Hillary to 
consciousness. 

“ Take her away — go away — go-go,” he murmured, and 1 led 
her, unresisting, from the room, and, to be secure from her further 
intrusion, bolted both the doors. 

“ You had better read the letter, sir,” said I, with a deep sigh, 
resuming my seat; his eyes remained riveted on me. 

“ I — I — I — can not, sir!” he stammered. A long pause ensued. 
“ It— she— had but called ” — he gasped, “ but once— or sent— after 
her— her mother’s death — ” and with a long groan he leaned for- 
ward, and fell against me. 

“ She did call, sir. She came the day after her mother’s death,” 
said 1, shaking my head sorrowfully. 

“ No, she didn’t ” he replied, suddenly looking at me with a stu- 
pefied air. 

“ Then her visit was cruelly concealed from you, sir. Poor 
creature! — I know she called.” 

He rose slowly from the prostrate posture in which he had re- 
mained for the last few moment, clinched his trembling fists, and 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK, 


95 


shook them with impotent anger. “ Who— who,” he muttered— 
“ wjio dared — 1 — 1 — I'll ring the bell. I’ll have all the—” 

“ Would you have really received her, then, sir, if you had known 
of her calling?” 

- His lips moved, he attempted in vain to utter an answer, and 
sobbed violently, covering bis face with his hands. 

“ Come, Mr Hillary, I see y ” said l, in a somewhat milder man- 
ner, “ that the feelings of‘a father are not utterly extinguished ”— 
he burst into vehement weeping; “ and I hope that— tliat.you may 
live to repent the frightful wrongs you have done; to redress the 
wrongs you have committed! Your poor persecuted daughter, Mr. 
Hillary, is not dead.” He uttered a sudden sharp cry that alarmed 
me; grasped my hands, and carrying them to his iipTs, kissed them 
in a kind of ecstasy. 

“ Telljne, say plainly, only say— that Mary is alive!” 

“ Well, then, sir, your daughter is alive, but—” 

He fell upon his knees, and groaned, “ Oh God, I thank .thee! 1 
thank thee! Liow 1 lliank thee!” 

1 waited till he had in some measure recovered from the ecstasy 
of emotion iuto which my words had thrown him, and assisted in 
loosening his shirt collar and neck handkerchief, which seemed to 
oppress him. 

“ Who, then,” he stammered—” who was found drowned— the 
Goroner’s inquest — ” 

“Her poor broken-hearted husband, sir, who will be buried at 
my expense in a day or two.” 

He covered his face again with his hands, and cried bitterly. 

“ This letter was written by him to you, sir ; and he sent it to me 
only a few hours, it seems, before he destroyed himself, and com- 
missioned me to deliver it to you. Is not his blood, sir, lying at 
your door?” I 

“ Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! Lord Christ, forgive me! Lord, 
forgive a guilty old sinner,” he groaned, sinking again on his 
kness, and wringing his hands. “ I— I am his murderer 1 I feel— 

1 know it!” 

“ Shall 1 read to you, sir, his last words?” said I. 

“ Yes, but they’ll choke me. 1 can’t bear them.” He sunk back 
exhausted upon the sofa. 1 took up the letter which had remained, 
till then upon the floor, since he had dropped it from his palsied 
grasp, and opening it, read with faltering accents the following: — 

“ For your poor dear daughter’s sake, sir, who is now a widow 
and a beggar, abandon your fierce and cruel resentment. I know 


96 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


that 1 am the guilty cause of all her misery. I have suffered and 
paid the full penalty of my sin! And 1 am, when } r ou read this, 
among the dead. 

“ Forgive me, father of my beloved and suffering wife! — forgive 
me, as 1 forgive you, in this solemn moment, from my heart, what- 
ever wrongs you may have done me! 

“ Let my death knock loudly at your heart’s door, so that it may 
open and take in my suffering, perishing Mary-— your Mary, and 
our unoffending little one! I know it will! Fleaven tells me that 
my sacrifice is accepted! 1 die full of grief, but contented in the 
belief that all will be well with the dear ones I leave behind me. 
God incline your heart to mercy! Farewell! So prays your un- 
happy, guilty, dying son-in-law. Henry Elliott.” 

It was a long while before my emotion, almost blinding my eyes 
and choking my utterance, permitted me to conclude this melan. 
clioly letter. Mr. Hillary sat all the while aghast. 

‘‘The gallows is too good for me!” he gasped. “Oil, what a 
monster! what a wretch have 1 been! Ay, I’ll surrender! 1 know 
I’m guilty! It’s all my doing! 1 confess all! It was I— it was I 
put him in prison. ” 1 looked darkly at him as he uttered these last 
words, and shook my head in silence. 

‘‘Ah! I see, 1 see you know it all! Come, then! Take me 
away! Away with me to Newgate. Anywhere you like. I’ll 
plead guilty!” He attempted to rise, but sunk back again into his 
seat. 

'* But — where’s Mary?” he gasped. 

“ Alas,” 1 replied, ‘‘ she does not yet know that she is a widow! 
that her child is an orphan! She has hersell, poor meek soul, been 
lying for many days at the gates of death, and even yet, her fate is 
more than doubtful!” 

“ Where is she? Let me know! tell me, or 1 shall die. Let me 
know where f may go and drop down at her feet, and ask her for- 
giveness!” 

“ She is in a common hospital— a lying-in hospital, sir— where 
she, a few days ago, only, gave birth to a dead child, after endur- 
ing, for the whole time of her preguaucy, the greatest want and 
misery! She has worked* her poor fingers to the bones, Mr. 
Hillary. She has slaved like a common servant, for her child, her 
husband, and herself, and yet she has hardly found bread for them!” 

“ Oh! stay, stay, doctor. A common hospital! my daughter — a 
common hospital!” repeated Mr. Hillary, pressing his hand to his 
forehead, and staring vacantly at me. 

“ Yes, sir, a common hospital! Where else could she go to? God 
be thanked, sir, for finding such resources, such places of refuge 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


97 


for the poor and forsaken! She fled thither to escape starvation, 
and to avoid eating the bread scarce sufficient tor her husband and 
her child! 1 have seen her enduring such misery as would have 
softened the heart of a fiend! And, good God! how am I to tell 
her what has happened? How 1 shudder at the task that her dead 
husband has imposed upon me! What am 1 to say to her? Tell me, 
Mr. Hillary, for 1 am con founded, I am in despair! How shall I 
break to her this frightful event?” Mr. Hillary groaned. ** Piay, 
tell me, sir,” 1 continued, with real sternness, “ what am 1 to do? 
How am I to face your wretched daughter in the morning? She has 
been unable even to see her husband for a moment since her illness. 
How will she bear being told that she is never to see him again? 1 
shall be almost guilty of her murder!” 1 paused, greatly agitated. 

‘‘Tell her— tell her — conceal the death,” he gasped; ‘‘and tell 
her first, that all’s forgiven, if she’ll accept my forgiveness, and 
forgive me! Tell her, be sure to tell her, that my whole fortune is 
hers and her child’s. Surely that— 1 will make my will afresh. 
Every halfpenny shall go to her and her child. It shall, so help me, 
God!” 

‘‘Poor creature!” 1 exclaimed, bitterly, “can money heal thy 
broken heart?” 1 paused. “ You may relent, Mr. Hillary, and re- 
ceive your unhappy daughter into your house again, but, believe 
me, her heart will lie in her husband’s grave!” 

“ Doctor, doctor! you are killing me!” he exclaimed, every feat- 
ure writhing under llie scourgings of remorse. “ Tell me! only tell 
me what can 1 do more! This house— all 1 have, is hers, for the 
rest of her life. She may turn me into the streets. I’ll live on bread 
and water, they shall roll in gold. But, oh, where is she? where is 
she? I’ll send the carriage instantly.” He rose, as if intending to 
ring the bell. 

“ No, no, Mr. Hillary; she must not be disturbed! She must 
remain at her present abode, under the roof of charity, where she 
lies, sweet being! humble and grateful among her sisters in suffer- 
ing.” 

“ 1— I’ll give a thousand pounds to the charity— 1 will. I’ll give 
a couple of thousands, so help me God, 1 will. And I’ll give it in 
the name of a repentant old sinner. Oh — I’ll do everything that a 
guilty wretch can do. But 1 must see my daughter! 1 must hear 
her blessed innocent lips say that she forgives me.” 

“ Pause, sir,” said X, solemnly; “you know not that she will 
live to leave the hospital, or receive your penitent acknowledgement 
—that she will not die while 1 am telling her the horrid—” 

4 — 


98 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 


“ "What! has she yet to hear ot it?” he exclaimed, looking aghast. 

“ I told you so, sir, some time ago.” 

” Oh, yes — you did, you did, but 1 forgot. Lord, Lord, 1 feel 
going mad!” He rose feebly from the sofa, and staggered for a 
moment to and fro, but his knees refused their support, and he sunk 
down again upon his seat, where he sat staring at me with a dull 
glassy eye, while 1 proceeded: 

“Another melancholy duty remains to be performed. I think, sir, 
you should see his remains.” 

“I see the body!” Fright flitted over his. face. “ Do you wish 
me to drop down dead beside it. sir? I see the body! It would 
burst out a-bleeding directly 1 got into the room, for i murdered 
him! Oh, God, forgive me! Oh, spare me such a sight!” 

” Well, sir, since your alarm is so great, that sad sight may be 
spared; but there is one thing 'you must do”— 1 paused; he looked 
at me apprehensively — “ testify your repentance, sir, by following 
his poor remains to the grave.” 

” 1—1 could not! It’s no use frightening me thus, doctor. 1—1 
tell you I should die, 1 should never return home alive. But, if 
you’ll allow it, my carriage shall follow. I’ll give orders this very 
night for a proper, a splendid funeral, such as is fit for— my — my — 
son-in-law! He shall be buried in my vault. No, no, that can not 
be, for then ” — he shuddered—” 1 must lie beside him! But, 1 can 
not go to the funeral! Lord, Lord, how the crowd would stare at 
me! how they would hoot me! They would tear me out of the 
coach. No” — he trembled — ” spare me that also, kind sir— spare 
me attending the funeral! I’ll remain at home in my own room in 
the dark all that day upon my knees, but 1 can not. nay, I will not 
follow him to the grave. The tolling of that bell ” — his voice died 
away—” would kill me.” 

” There is yet another thing, sir. His little boy ” — my voice fal- 
tered — “is living at my house; perhaps you would refuse to see 
him, for he is very like his wretched father.” 

” Oh, bring him! bring him to me!” he murmured. ” How 1 will 
worship him! what I will do tor him! But how his murdered fa- 
ther will always look out of his eyes at me! Oh, my God! whither 
shall 1 go; what must 1 do to escape? Oh that 1 had died and been 
buried with my poor wife, the other day, before 1 had heard of all 
this!” 

“You would have known, you would have heard of it hereafter, 
sir.” 

” Ah! that’s it! 1 know it, I know what you mean, and I feel it’s 


THE MERCHANT^ CLERK. 


99 


true. Yes, 1 shall be damned for what I’ve done. Such a wretch, 
how can 1 expect forgiveness? Oh, will you read a prayer with me? 
No, I’ll pray myself— no.” 

“ Pray, sir, and may your prayers be heard! And also pray that 
1 may be able to tell safely my awful message to your daughter, that 
the blow may not smite her into the grave! And lastly, sir,” 1 add- 
ed, rising and addressing him with all the emphasis and solemnity 
1 could, “ I charge you, in the name of God, to make no attempt to 
see your daughter, or send to her, till you see or hear from me 
again.” 

He promised to obey my injunctions, imploring me to call upon 
her the next day, and seizing my hand between his own with a con- 
vulsive grasp, from which 1 could not extricate it but with some lit- 
tle force. As I had never once offered a syllable of sympathy 
throughout our interview, so 1 quitted his presence coldly and 
sternly, while he threw himself down at full length upon the sofa, 
and 1 heard without any emotion his half-choked exclamation. 

Lord, Lord, what is to become of me!” 

On reaching the back drawing-room, 1 encountered Miss Gubbley 
walking to and fro, excessively pale and agitated. 1 had uncoiled 
that little viper — i had plucked it from the heart into which it had 
crept, and so far 1 felt that I had not failed in that night’s errand! 
1 foresaw her speedy dismissal; and it took place within a week 
from the day on which 1 had visited Mr. Hillary. 

The next day, about noon, I called at the lodging where Elliott’s 
remains were lying, in order that 1 might make a few simple ar- 
rangements for a speedy funeral. 

“ Oh, here’s Dr. !” exclaimed the woman of the house, to a 

gentleman dressed in black, who, with two others in similar habili- 
ments, was just quitting. “ These 'ere gentlemen, sir, are come 
about the funeral, sir, of poor dear Mr. Elliott.” 1 begged them to 
return into the house. “ I presume, sir,” said 1, “ you have been 
sent here by Mr. Hillary’s orders?” 

“A — Mr. Hillary did me the honor, sir, to request me to call, 
sir,” replied the polite man of death, with alow bow, “and am 
favored with the expression of his wishes, sir, to spare no expense 
in showing his respect for the deceased. So my rhen have just 
measured the body, sir; the shell will be here to-night, sir, the 
leaden coffin the day after, and the outer coffin — ” 

“ Stop, sir; Mr. Hillary is premature. He has quite mistaken my 
wishes, sir. I act as the executor of Mr. Elliott, and Mr. Hillary has 
no concern whatever with the burial of these remains.” 


100 


THE MERCHANT’S CLERK. 


He bowed, with an air of mingled astonishment and mortification. 

“ it is my wish and intention, sir,” said 1, “ that this unfortunate 
gentleman be buried in the simplest and most private manner pos- 
sible.” 

“ Oh, sir! but Mr. Hillary’s orders to me were --pardon me, sir — 
so very liberal, to do the thing in a gentleman-like w r av — ” 

“ 1 tell you again, sir, that Mr. Hillary has nothing whatever to 
do with the matter, nor shall 1 admit of his interference. If you 
choose to obey my orders, you will procure a plain deal coffin, a 
hearse and pair, and one mourning coach, and provide a grave in 

church-yard— nay, open Mr. Hillary’s vault and bury there, if 

he will permit.” 

44 1 really think, sir, you’d better employ a person in the small 
way,” said he, casting a grim look at his two attendants; “ 1 am 
not accustomed — ” 

“You may retire then, sir, at once,” said 1; and with a lofty bow 
the great undertaker withdrew. No! despised, persecuted, and for- 
saken had poor Elliott been in his life; there should be, 1 resolved, 
no splendid mockery — no fashionable foolery about his burial! 1 
chose for him, not the vault of Mr. Hillary, but a grave in the hum- 
ble church-yard of , where the poor suicide might slumber in 

“ penitential loneliness!” 

He was buried as 1 wished — no one attending the funeral but my- 
self, the proprietor of the house in which he had lived at the period 
of his death, and the early and humble acquaintance who had at- 
tended his wedding. 1 had wished to carry with us as chief 
mourner, little Elliott, by way of fulfilling, as far as possible, the 
touching injunctions left by his father, but my wife dissuaded me 
from it. “ Well, poor Elliott,” said I, as 1 took my last look into 
his grave — 

“ ‘ After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps ■well.' 

Heaven forgive the rash act which brought his days to an untimely 
close, and him whose cruelty and wickedness occasioned it!” 

1 shall not bring the reader again into the guilty and gloomy pres- 
ence of Mr. Hillary. His hard heart was indeed broken by the 
blow that poor Elliott had struck, whose mournful prophecy was in 
this respect fulfilled. Providence decreed that the declining days 
of the inexorable and unnatural parent should be clouded with a 
wretchedness that admitted of neither intermission nor alleviation, 
equally destitute as he was of consolation from the past, and hope 
from the future! 


THE MERCHANT'S CLERK. 101 

And his daughter! oh, disturb not the veil that has fallen over 
the broken-hearted! 

.Never again did the high and noble spirit of Mary Elliott lift itself 
up— for her heart lay buried in her young husband’s grave — the 
grave dug for him by the eager and cruel hands of her father 1 In 
vain did those hands lavishly scatter about her all the splendor and 
luxuries of unbounded wealth — they could never divert her cold 
undazzled eye from the mournful image of him whose death had 
purchased them; and what could she see in her too late repentant 
father but his murderer? 


THE END. 


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30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 j 

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47 In Silk Attire 10 

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51 Kilmeny 10 

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1925 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. First half 20 

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408 File No. 118 20 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. First half 20 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. Second half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. First half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. Second half 20 

490 Marriage at a Venture 10 

494 The Mystery of Orcival ‘ 20 

501 Other People’s Money 20 

509 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

515 The Widow Lerouge . 20 

523 The Clique of Gold 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Parti 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Part II 20 

704 Captain Contanceau; or, The Volunteers of 1792 10 

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758 The Little Old Man of the Batignolles 10 

778 The Men of the Bureau 10 

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818 The 13th Hussars 10 

834 A Thousand Francs Reward 10 

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1184 The Marquise de Brinvilliers 20 

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516 The Squire’s Legacy (in large type) * 20 

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29 Nora’s Love Test 10 

421 Nora’s Love Test (in large type).. .... .................. 20 

275 A Shadow on the Threshold. .............. . ...... 10 

863 Reaping the Whirlwind - . . 10 

384 Back to the Old Home 10 

415 A Dark Inheritance. ; 10 

• 440 The Sorrow of a Secret, and Lady Carmichael’s Will.. = . 10 

686 Brenda Yorke ...... 10 

724 For Her Dear Sake 20 

852 Missing 10 

855 Dolf’s Big Brother 10 

930 In the Holidays, and The Name Cut on a Gate 10 

935 Under Life’s Key, and Other Stories 20 

972 Into the Shade, and Other Stories. 20 

1011 My First Offer 10 

1014 Told in New England, and Other Tales. .................... 10 

1016 At the Seaside; or, A Sister’s Sacrifice. .................. 10 

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1431 “ A Little Aversion ” 10 

1549 Bid Me Discourse 10 


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98 Harry Lorrequer 

132 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. ....................... 

137 A Rent in a Cloud 

146 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon (Triple Number). 
152 Arthur O’Leary 

168 Con Cregan 

169 St. Patrick’s Eve 

174 Kate O’Donoghue . . 

257 That Boy of Norcott’s. 

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296 Tom Burke of “ Ours. ” Second half. 

319 Davenport Dunn. First half. ......... 

319 Davenport Dunn. Second half 

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470 The Fortunes of Glencore 20 

529 Lord Kilgobbin 20 

546 Maurice Tiernay 20 

566 A Day’s Ride 20 

609 Barrington 20 

633 Sir Jasper Carew, Knight 20 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part I . . 20 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part II 20 

822 Tony Butler 20 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part I 20 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part II 20 

951 Paul Gosslett’s Confessions . . 10 

965 One of Them. First half 20 

965 One of Them. Second half 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part 1 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part II 20 

1235 The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. First half 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. Second half 20 

1342 Horace Templeton 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. First half. 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. Second half 20 

1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. First half 20 

1496 The Daltons; or. Three Roads in Life. Second half. ..... 20 

GEORGE MACDONALD’S WORKS. 

455 Paul Faber, Surgeon . 20 

491 Sir Gibbie 20 

595 The Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 20 

606 The Seaboard Parish 20 

627 Thomas Wingfold, Curate 20 

643 The Yicar’s Daughter 20 

668 David Elginbrod 20 

677 St. George and St. Michael 20 

790 Alec Forbes of Howglen 20 

887 Malcolm 20 

922 Mary Marston 20 

938 Guild Court. A London Story 20 

948 The Marquis of Lossie 20 

962 Robert Falconer 20 

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TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


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1466 The Gifts of the Child Christ, and Other Tales 10 

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1498 Weighed and Wanting 20 

1884 Donal Grant 20 

1921 The Portent 10 

1922 Phantastes: A Faerie Romance for Men and Women 10 

MRS. OLIPHANT’S WORKS. 

136 Katie Stewart 10 

210 Young Musgrave 20 

391 The Primrose Path 20 

452 An Odd Couple 10 

475 Heart and Cross 10 

488 A Beleaguered City 10 

497 For Love and Life 20 

511 Squire Arden 20 

542 The Story of Valentine and His Brother 20 

596 Caleb Field 10 

651 Madonna Mary 20 

665 The Fugitives 10 

680 The Greatest Heiress in England 20 

706 Earthbound 10 

775 The Queen (Illustrated) 10 

785 Orphans 10 

802 Phoebe, Junior. A Last Chronicle of Carlingford 20 

875 No. 3 Grove Road 10 

881 He That Will Not When He May ‘ 20 

919 May.....! 20 

959 Miss Marjpribanks. Part 1 20 ; 

959 Miss Marjoribanks. Part II 20 

1004 Harry Joscelyn 20 

1017 Carita 20 

1049 In Trust 20 

1215 Brownlows 20 

1319 Lady Jane 10 

1396 Whiteladies : 20 

1407 A Rose in June. 10 

1449 A Little Pilgrim 10 

1547 It Was a Lover and His Lass 20 

1647 The Ladies Lindores 20 

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1662 Salem Chapel 20 

1669 The Minister’s Wife. First half 20 

1669 The Minister’s Wife. Second half 20 

1680 The Wizard’s Son *, 20 

1697 The Lady’s Walk 10 

1703 Sir Tom 20 

1794 A Son of the Soil 20 

1798 Hester; A Story of Contemporary Life 20 

1804 The Laird of Norlaw 20 

1919 The Prodigals: And Their Inheritance 10 

1935 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 

Including Some Chronicles of the Borough of Fendie. . . 20 

1937 Madam , 10 

1945 The House on the Moor 20 

“ OUIDA’S” WORKS. 

49 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in Bondage 20 

54 Under Two Flags — '. 20 

55 In a Winter City 10 

56 Strathmore 20 

59 Chandos 20 

61 Bebee; or, Two Little Wooden Shoes 10 

62 Folle-Farine 20 

71 Ariadne— The Story of a Dream 20 

181 Beatrice Boville 10 

211 Randolph Gordon 10 

230 Little Grand and the Marchioness 10 

241 Tricotrin 20 

249 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage 10 

279 A Leaf in the Storm, and Other Tales 10 

281 Lady Marabout’s Troubles 10 

834 Puck 20 

377 Friendship . 20 

379 Pascarel 20 

386 Signa 20 

389 Idalia 20 

563 A Hero’s Reward 10 

676 Umilta 10 

699 Moths 20 

791 Pipistrello 10 

864 Findelkind 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


915 A Village Commune 20 

1025 The Little Earl 10 

1247 -in Maremma 20 

1334 Bimbi 10 

1586 Frescoes 10 

1625 Wanda, Countess von Szalras 20 

1755 Afternoon, and Other Sketches 10 

1851 Princess Napraxine 20 

CHARLES READE’S WORKS. 

4 A Woman-Hater 20 

19 A Terrible Temptation 10 

21 Foul Play 20 

24 “ It is Never Too Late to Mend ” 20 

31 Love Me Little, Love Me Long . 20 

34 A Simpleton 10 

41 White Lies 20 

78 Griffith Gaunt 20 

86 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

112 Very Hard Cash 20 

203 The Cloister and the Hearth 20 

237 The Wandering Heir 10 

246 Peg Woffington 10 

270 The Jilt../. ' 10 

371 Christie Johnstone 10 

536 Jack of all Trades 10 

1204 Clouds and Sunshine 10 

1322 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

1390 Singleheart and Doubleface. A Matter-of-Fact Romance .. . 10 

1817 Readiana: Comments on Current Events 10 

1853 Love and Money; or, A Perilous Secret 20 

SIR WALTER SCOTT’S WORKS. 

39 Ivanlioe 20 

183 Kenilworth I 20 

196 Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

593 The Talisman 20 

723 Guy Mannering 20 

857 Waverley 20 

920 Rob Roy 20 

1007 Quentin Dur ward 20 


TEE RE ASIDE LIBRA RY.~ Ordinary Edition . 


1082 Count Robert of Paris. 20 

1275 Old Mortality 20 

1328 The Antiquary 20 

1399 The Pirate ' . . 20 

1462 The Betrothed: A Tale of the Crusaders, and The Chron- 
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1598 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the Eighteenth Century 20 

1 701 The Monastery 20 

1702 The Abbot (Sequel to ‘The Monastery”) 20 

1827 The Fair Maid of Perth 20 

1831 St. Ronan’s Well 20 

1848 The Black Dwarf, and A Legend of Montrose 20 

1865 Peveril of the Peak 30 

ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 

12 The American Senator 20 

399 The Lady of Launay 10 

530 Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite 20 

531 John Caldigate 20 

601 Cousin Henry. ....... 10 

768 The Duke’s Children 20 

870 An Eye for an Eye 10 

910 Dr. Wortle’s School 10 

944 Miss Mackenzie 20 

1047 Ayala’s Angel 20 

1090 Barchester Towers 20 

1201 Phineas Finn. First half. 20 

1201 Phineas Finn. Second half 20 

1206 Doctor Thorne. First half 20 

1206 Doctor Thorne. Second half 20 

1217 Lady Anna : 20 

1255 The Fixed Period 10 

1283 Why Frau Frohmann Raised Her Prices, and Other Stories. 10 

1292 Marion Fay 20 

1306 The Struggles of Brown, Jones & Robinson 20 

1318 Orley Farm. First half 20 

1318 Orley Farm. Second half 20 

1348 The Belton Estate 20 

1419 Kept in the Dark 10 

1436 The Kellys and The O ’Kellys 20 

1450 The Two Heroines of Plumplington 10 

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1HE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


1455 The Macdermots of Bally cloran 20 

1473 Castle Richmond 20 

I486 Phineas Redux. First half 20 

1486 Phineas Redux. Second half 20 

1494 The Vicar of Bullhampton 20 

1511 Not If I Know It 10 

*551 Is He Popenjoy? 20 

1559 The Small House at Allington. First half 20 

1559 The Small House at Allington. Second half .. 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. First half 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. Second half 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. First half. . 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. Second half 20 

1656 Mr. Scarborough’s Family 20 

1685 Alice Dugdale 10 

1707 The Land Leaguers 20 

1728 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiography 20 

1756 Rachel Ray 20 

1802 Framley Parsonage 20 

1805 La Mere Bauche 10 

1816 An Old Man’s Love 10 

JULES VERNE’S WORKS. 

5 The Black-Indies : 10 

16 The English at the North Pole 10 

43 Hector Servadac 10 

57 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World — South 

America 10 

60 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World — Australia 10 
64 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World— New 

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68 Five Weeks in a Balloon 10 

72 Meridiana, and The Blockade Runners 10 

75 The Fur Country. Part I 10 

75 The Fur Country. Part II 10 

84 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas 10 

87 A Journey to the Centre of the Earth 10 

90 The Mysterious Island — Dropped from the Clouds 10 

93 The Mysterious Island — The Abandoned 10 

97 The Mysterious Island — The Secret of the Island 10 

99 From the Earth to the Moon 10 

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Ill A Tour of the World in Eighty Days 10 

131 Michael Strogoff 10 

1092 Michael Strogoff (large type, illustrated edition) 20 

414 Dick Sand; or, Captain at Fifteen. Part 1 10 

414 Dick Sand; or, Captain at Fifteen. Part II 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part I. 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part II 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part III 20 

505 The Field of Ice (Illustrated) 10 

510 The Pearl of Lima .10 

520 Round the Moon (Illustrated).. 10 

634 The 500 Millions of the Begum 10 

647 Tribulations of a Chinaman 10 

673 Dr. Ox’s Experiment 10 

710 Survivors of the Chancellor 10 

818 The Steam-House; or, A Trip Across Northern India. 

Part I 10 

818 The Steam-House; or, A Trip Across Northern India. 

Part II 10 

1043 The Jangada; or, Eight Hundred Leagues over the Ama- 
zon. Part I... 10 

1043 The Jangada; or, Eight Hundred Leagues over the Ama- 
zon. Part II 10 

1519 Robinsons’ School 10 

1677 The Headstrong Turk. First half 10 

1677 The Headstrong Turk. Second half 10 

1716 The Green Ray 10 

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395 The Archipelago on Fire. By Jules 

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396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By Rcfca 

Nouchette Carey .’ 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The Leaguer of 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. By Rob- 

ert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee :. 20 

400 The Wept of Wish -Ton-Wish. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or. Passages in the Life of 

Mrs. Margaret Maitland of Sunny- 
side. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Coleridge . 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other Stories. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by Julian 

Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. B 3 r Thomas Hood 20 


The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage pre- 
paid, by the publisher, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, 17 cents for special numbers, and 
25 cents for double numbers. Parties wishing the rocket Edit ion of TheSeaside Library must be 
careful to mention the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent. Address, 


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